


Guardian (Redux)

by ZombieBabs



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Babylonian Mythology - Freeform, Blood and Violence, F/M, Guardian Angels, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Richard Strand is in Denial, Romance, Slow Burn, Smut, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Why Does It Always Have To Be Demons?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieBabs/pseuds/ZombieBabs
Summary: Richard Strand is Alex Reagan's appointed guardian, whether he believes or not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The original version of this fic was written back during season one of the podcast. I'm continuing with that idea--I'd say the setting is somewhere before The Devil You Know. In this fic, they haven't gotten into the good stuff about Demonic Cults and Devil Music and neither have they put much effort into tracking down Coralee. This was also before Alex started having problems with her insomnia.

_Hunger gnaws at him. Claws at him from the inside._

_He wrenches at the chains binding him. They hold fast, made of something much more than links of earthly metal._

_He wrenches again._

_The links whine in protest._

_He stops, tilts his head._

_Over a thousand years have passed since he was last free. Locked away in darkness, yearning to feed._

_Too long. Far too long._

_He balls clawed hands into fists. He flexes the leathery wings at his back._

_The chains loosen._

_Only a fraction, allowing him only the slightest movement, but they loosen._

_He smiles around a mouth full of fangs._

_Soon._

 

Dr. Richard Strand, president and founder of the Strand Institute—an institute built to fight blind belief and to reintroduce skepticism to the public—wakes.

He presses a hand to his forehead, fever-hot and damp with sweat. The room spins. He swallows around the urge to vomit.

Again.

The same dream.

But different.

With a sigh, Strand sits up. He swings long legs over the side of the bed and curls his toes in the carpet to ground himself.

Without his glasses, he stumbles on the way to the bathroom. He feels around for the doorway and pats the interior wall for the light.

He fumbles for the orange blur standing sentinel on the sink. The rattle of its contents soothes some of the anxiety swirling in his chest.

Strand dry-swallows two pills.

He wrenches the knob to start the shower. He pulls the damp T-shirt over his head and steps out of his sweatpants. He stands under the heated spray until the water cools.

When he steps out of the shower, he grabs for the towel. He rubs at his hair as he leaves the bathroom, naked and dripping.

He does not make the mistake of looking into the mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

Alex Reagan—radio producer, investigative journalist, and newly become podcast host—rolls her wrist to check her watch. Again.

Dr. Strand was supposed to meet her ten minutes ago. Ten agonizing minutes ago.

If it were anyone else, Alex would shrug and go on with her day. But Dr. Strand? Dr. Richard Strand?

Alex frowns. Could he have hit traffic on the way to the studio?

Alex shakes her head. No, Strand would have called her if it were something as simple as traffic.

She turns to her computer and clicks into her email. It’s unlikely, but perhaps he rescheduled at the last second?

Scrolling through her inbox, she scans for his name. She scans again for the name of Ruby, his assistant.

Nothing.

She thumbs over the home button on her phone to wake it. No missed notifications.

Should she call him?

Her finger hovers over the screen. She bites her bottom lip. 

She’s overreacting, isn’t she? Ten minutes isn’t the end of the world. 

Coffee. Coffee will help settle her nerves. And brewing it will give her something to do while she waits.

Alex pulls open one of the drawers in her desk. She rummages through boxes, looking for the new box of generic Donut Shop K-Cups at the bottom. She fights with the cardboard to open it, ignoring the manufactured perforation, the kind that never truly seems to tear open the way it should. She holds up the little cup of pre-packaged coffee with a small sound of triumph.

Knuckles rap against the door to her office. Alex jumps, hiding the K-Cup back in the drawer, her face hot. 

Strand stands in the entrance.

Alex takes him in. The finely tailored suit, dry-cleaned and pressed. The shoes shining under the flourescent lights of her office. The slick-backed hair and the bright blue eyes behind the thick frames of his eyeglasses. He looks as he always does, except—

Alex fumbles for the word for it, eventually landing upon _frazzled_. Like a knit blanket with not one, but several loose threads, all in danger of being unraveled with the slightest tug.

She takes a second, closer, look. Strands of slightly mussed hair have fallen from his usual neat style. Bloodshot eyes study her from behind his glasses, shadowed with dark purple smudges. His broad shoulders are set in a tight, tense line.

“Hey, Dr. Stand. Are you...alright?”

He breathes in, not quite a sigh. “Yes. I’m fine. I apologize for being late.”

Alex waits for more, but nothing comes. She shakes her head. “No problem. I was just about to make some coffee. You look like you could use it. Why don’t you take a seat?”

Before he can argue, she smiles and slips two K-Cups from her drawer. “I’ll be right back.”

Two standard Pacific Northwest Stories mugs nearly tumble out of her hands when Alex shoulders the door to her office open.

Strand sits in one of the chairs in front of Alex’s desk, his back to the door. Folded over himself, chest heaving, breathing hard.

Alex rushes into her office, letting the door swing shut behind her. She places both mugs dangerously close to the edge of her desk and kneels beside Strand.

His hand clutches at his shirt, right over his heart. His eye clench shut, fighting back pain.

Alex places her hand on his knee to catch his attention. “Hey, hey, are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

Strand shakes his head. He grits his teeth. “It’s—it’s nothing.”

“Richard.” 

The use of his name startles him into looking at her. 

“This doesn’t look like it’s nothing. Talk to me.”

He closes his eyes and rocks forward as his fist warps the cotton of his shirt. “It will pass. I need—I need a moment. Please.”

Alex squeezes the hand on his knee, running her thumb in tight circles over his slacks as his breath hitches. 

Minutes go by before his slumps all the way forward, his forehead pressed against the wood of her desk. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

He sits up. He rubs at his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms into them underneath his glasses.

“What happened?” Alex asks. “I was just gone a few minutes.”

Strand doesn’t say anything.

Alex sighs. Why can’t he open up to her? Why does he have to be so tight-lipped about everything?

“Okay,” Alex says. As the subject of her podcast, perhaps it’s better they keep some of the distance between them. She’s already proved to herself how far she’s slipped from objective when it comes to him. Ten minutes late and she was ready to sound the alarms. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Alex stands, her knees protesting. She places her hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, a less intimate gesture of comfort.

He presses back into the touch. Or is Alex experiencing some form of apophenia? A trick of her brain, even after warning herself to remain objective?

“Do you want me to drive you back to your hotel?” It’s the type of question she would ask any of her subjects, after witnessing their distress. Not at all because of the knot of worry tangling in the pit of her stomach.

“No,” he says. “No. I already inconvenienced you by being late. We should proceed with our meeting.”

Alex frowns. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea. We can reschedule for tomorrow.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but Alex holds up a hand. “Please? I really think you should get some rest.”

He runs a hand through his hair, throwing it into complete disarray. “Tomorrow, then.”

The knot loosens. Barely. “Thank you.”

Strand stands, a little wobbly on his feet. He pats down his pockets until he finds the key to his rental car. He offers it to her, holding it up by the rental tag.

Alex takes it and leads her from her office, turning off the lights before they go. His arm brushes her shoulder as they walk. Alex looks up, but Strand faces forward rather than acknowledge their closeness.

Alex smiles and bumps her shoulder into his arm, leaning into him as they head for the parking lot.

So much for objectivity.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hunger. Insistent, gnawing, fiery hunger._

_He thrashes in the darkness, hampered by the chains binding him._

_Voices. Familiar voices. Voices millenia old. Sibilant whispers echo against the stone walls of his prison._

_“Guardian.”_

_“Your time is coming.”_

_“Soon.”_

_He twists under his bonds. They hold, but grow more slack by the day._

_Very soon._

_Freedom._

 

Strand wakes with a gasp.

He sits in the armchair in the corner of his hotel room. His laptop lays on its side on the floor, the cord pulled taut over his legs. The television plays with the volume turned low, the early morning newscaster promising rain in the coming week.

Strand groans and glances at his watch. Just enough time to shower before Alex picks him up.

He drags himself out of the chair with another groan. He cracks the bones in his back, relieving some of the pain collected at the base of his spine after sleeping upright. He picks up the laptop and dusts it off. The screen, fortunately, is undamaged. He closes it, unplugs it from the wall, and sets it on the pristinely made bed.

Strand pulls his T-shirt over his head and lets it slip to the floor. He undoes the drawstring at his waist and steps out of his sweatpants, then his boxer briefs, leaving them, too, in a pile on the floor. He holds onto the wall for support and throws his socks somewhere behind him.

Standing naked in the bathroom, Strand avoids looking into the mirror. Something flashes behind the glass, something in the very corner of his vision, but Strand refuses to look. Instead, he twists the top off of the orange bottle of medication and shakes out two pills. He swallows them down with a mouthful of water from the sink before heading into the shower.

The hot water soothes away some of the stiffness. He stands under the spray, head bowed, letting it hit the spot between his shoulder blades. The muscles in his back ache. His skin burns as if rubbed raw. Tentative fingers explore what they can, but find nothing but smooth, undamaged skin.

Still, he hisses in pain when he presses down. Bruised? How could he have bruised himself in the last day or so?

His dream flashes before his eyes, so violently it throws him off balance. He leans against the tiled wall, ignoring the sensation of phantom limbs and the sound of grinding metal, of whispers echoing into eternity.

Just his exhausted mind playing tricks on him.

Another case of apophenia.

Her fingers fly over the keyboard of her phone while she waits for Strand. She bobs her head along with the music playing through the speakers, connected via bluetooth to her iPod. She does not look up, does not peer through the windshield to watch for Strand.

And she does _not_ jump when knuckles tap at the passenger side window.

Instead, she hides the stuttering of her heart behind a smile. She unlocks the door and Strand slides into the seat, somehow folding all six foot something of himself in her admittedly compact vehicle.

“Good morning,” he says, buckling himself in.

“Morning,” Alex says. She examines him, watches him carefully. He holds himself stiff, like he’s nursing an injury. “How are you feeling?”

He pauses. He taps the arm rest with the tips of his fingers. “I was able to get some sleep.”

A lie. Or not quite a lie. But Alex can’t confirm her suspicions, his eyes concealed behind a pair of dark prescription sunglasses.

Alex smiles. “Good, I’m glad. You had me pretty worried.”

“I apologize.”

She watches him, waiting for more, for some kind of explanation.

Strand turns to look out of the window at the overcast sky above. “Shall we go?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, schooling her tone to hide her disappointment. “Yeah, let’s go.”

 

Alex Reagan, intrepid reporter, vibrates in the driver’s seat beside him. She taps the steering wheel, not to the beat of whatever music plays low, just loud enough to drown out the silence and the rumble of the car, but with the _need_ to ask him questions.

She doesn’t, however. She struggles to reign in her inquisitive nature, but she manages it. Even if she has to bite down on her lower lip to remind herself not to speak, to wait for him to open up first.

In the parking lot, with the engine still running, he offers her...something. Not much, but enough to put her concern to rest. “I haven’t been sleeping much. Lately.”

“Oh?”

Strand allows the corners of his lips to pull upward. She’s trying desperately not to push, but her hazel eyes shine with interest.

He grabs for the door handle and pushes the door open, having said all he’s willing to say. “We should go inside.”

He doesn’t look back as Alex gets out and closes the door behind her. She jogs to catch up to him, her flats hardly making any noise against the concrete, holding out the key to his rental car. “Here, the key to your car. You’ll probably want it back.”

Their fingers brush as he takes it from her, her touch warm, always so warm. It startled him when they first shook hands, that fateful meeting after eleven dodged calls. It hasn’t failed to startle him since. How can one person—a person as small as Alex Reagan—radiate such heat? “Thank you.”

Alex smiles. “You’re welcome.”

She leads him into the building and badges him in without a visitor’s pass. He follows her into her office and takes a seat in the proffered chair.

“I just have to check my email,” she says, “and then we can start. Should only be a minute or two. That okay?”

“Certainly.”

Pulled into a loose bun, stray strands of hair frame her face. She bites her lip as she types. Her eyes flicker to him and Strand’s face heats before he can pull out his phone and pretend to be doing anything other than watching her.

In the corner of his vision, Alex smiles. She goes back to typing.

Something in his chest tightens.

No.

Not again.

He closes his eyes. He wills himself to stay in control. He pulls in slow, steady breaths.

The world slows to a crawl around him.

Voices whisper in between the stroke of every key of Alex’s keyboard, between every click of her mouse. The same voices from his dreams.

_Guardian._

_Soon._

All at once, the world snaps back to its usual speed, leaving Strand swallowing around the acid rising in his throat. 

Alex looks at him, concern in her eyes. “You zoned out there for a second. You okay?”

“I—”

Strand’s phone rings. Both Alex and Strand jump.

“Excuse me,” he says, before he can even read the number on the screen. “I have to take this.”

“Sure.”

By the time she says it, Strand has already left his chair. He ducks out of Alex’s office and into the relative privacy of the men’s restroom.

“Hello,” he says into the phone. His voice echoes against ceramic tile.

“Dr. Strand, this is Dr. Maloney.”

Relief washes over Strand. His body goes slack with it. His shoulders drop as he breathes out. “Dr. Maloney. Thank you for returning my call.”

“Your message said you wanted to discuss your current medication. Are you experiencing any side effects?”

The words threaten to spill from his lips in a rush, but Strand forces himself to take another breath. “No. I need you to increase the dosage.”

“Why?” Maloney asks, no challenge in his voice, no judgement. Only stalwart professionalism.

“The hallucinations—they're worse.”

On the other end of the line, Maloney types a note into his file. “What kind of hallucinations are you experiencing? More of the same?”

“Yes.” Strand runs a hand through his hair. “Auditory. Visual.”

Maloney types another note. “Well, Dr. Strand, I am hesitant to make changes to your medication without speaking to you in person. I see you have an appointment with me in a month. I can have my assistant reschedule for this week. Does that work for you?”

“Next week,” Strand says. “I’m teaching a class in Seattle. I can make it back to Chicago by Tuesday.”

Maloney hums. “I’ll have my assistant work you into my schedule. Until then, you aren't feeling homicidal? Suicidal?”

“No.”

“Good. Good. Call again if that changes.”

Strand hangs up the phone. 

A week. He can hold out for a week. He managed for much longer, before he was first diagnosed as a teenager. In a week, the voices and the visions will disappear once more, under the influence of antipsychotics.

Strand pockets his phone. Careful to avoid looking in the mirror, he bends over a sink. He turns the faucet cold and splashes his face. He scrubs at weary eyes, then his skin, as if he can wash away the anxiety.

The door opens behind Strand.

On instinct, Strand looks up. Into the mirror.

A monster smiles back at him. An otherworldly, impossible creature. A creature with gargoyle grey skin, the flesh raised in swirling patterns, with starlight silver hair hanging into its face.

“Dr. Strand?” The intern’s voice comes from very far away. Miles perhaps.

The creature’s eyes glow blue as it stares at Strand. It cocks it head and grins around gleaming fangs. It flexes leathery, bat-like wings.

The mirror explodes in a shower of glass.

Skinny arms pull Strand away from the wreckage. “Holy shit! Dr. Strand, are you alright? What the fuck?”

Blood drips from Strand’s hand onto the floor. It stains his skin, as well as the cuff of his sleeve, bright red.

The intern’s eyes widen. “Um, you’re bleeding. You’re bleeding a _lot_.”

Strand clutches at his wrist, holding his injured hand to him. He can't feel anything, not yet. He takes a breath. “I’m fine. Bring me the first aid kit.”

The intern shakes his head. “Dude, no. What the fuck? No way you’re going to pick all that glass out yourself. You need to go to the hospital.”

Strand grits his teeth. “The first aid kit. Now.”

With only a second of indecision, the intern bolts from the room.

The intern doesn’t return, however. No, when the door bursts open, Alex strides in, her expression equal parts worry and confusion.

“You _punched_ a mirror?”

The evidence of his action lies scattered all over the restroom. He lets the shards of blood-stained glass speak for him.

“Why the _hell_ did you punch the mirror?”

“I’ll pay for it,” he says.

Alex's eyes narrow. “That's not what's important right now and you know it.”

She holds out a hand. “Let me see.”

“The first aid kit--”

“ _Let me_ _see_.”

He offers her his hand, embedded with shards of glass, glittering oddly in the light from the fluorescents overhead. Blood runs in little rivulets from each laceration, some much deeper than others.

“Oh my god. _Fuck_ , Strand. You're lucky you didn't sever an artery.”

He flinches at her language. At the barely restrained emotion in her voice. Fury, perhaps, over what he’s done.

Alex mistakes his discomfort for pain. “Come on, let's get you to the hospital.”

“No,” Strand says. He hugs his hand to him, holding it protectively against his chest. “I can take care of it myself.”

Alex places her hands upon her hips. “Look, Richard. Either you let me drive you to the hospital or I call an ambulance. One way or another, you're getting that looked at by a medical professional.”

What can he do but submit? His resolve crumbles at the use of his name. His first name. Reserved for rare, quiet moments between them, used now for an entirely different purpose.

She drives him to the hospital, his hand still embedded with glass, wrapped carefully in a terry cloth towel from the Pacific Northwest Stories break room.

He leaves the hospital with eight stitches and a splint for his broken thumb.


	4. Chapter 4

Strand sits in the passenger seat of his rental, his bandaged hand cradled in his lap.

Alex fiddles with her iPod at red lights, changes the settings on the speakers, asks him whether he’s getting enough air—all excuses to eye him whenever she can while still watching the road.

Finally, with a sigh of something close to frustration, she breaks. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”

“I told you. I haven’t been sleeping.”

Another red light. Alex turns to him. “You don’t punch mirrors just because you haven’t slept.”

He ducks his head, but trapped in the car, he cannot hide from her.

“Richard.”

His name again. A shiver runs down his spine, electric. “Please, Alex—”

The light turns green. The car behind them honks twice. Alex turns back to the road.

“You can tell me,” she says, after several minutes pass in silence. “I won’t judge you. I’m just worried.”

Worried? For him? He closes his eyes. How long has it been since someone worried for him? Ten years? Twenty?

How can he say no to her?

“I had night terrors. When I was a child.”

“Night terrors? Like nightmares?”

“Worse.” Strand sighs and lets himself lean into the door. The window vibrates under the sharp swell of his cheekbone. “It occurs when a child transitions from the deepest stage of REM sleep to a stage of non-REM sleep. It’s a fear reaction without the stimulus of a nightmare. The child seems to wake, he or she will cry and scream, but will be unconsolable, non-responsive to his or her environment. The event can last up to thirty minutes before the child goes back to sleep, without any memory of the it happening come morning.”

Alex pulls into the parking lot of his hotel. She slides into a space in the front, puts the car into park, but she doesn’t turn off the car. “And that happened to you?”

“Yes.”

When he doesn’t volunteer any more information, Alex asks, “So, what does this have to do with what’s happening now?”

“I grew out of the night terrors, as children do. But I had nightmares, when I grew older. They stopped, eventually. For a long time.”

“But they’re back?”

He presses his forehead into the cool glass. “Yes.”

He hesitates. Then, very quiet, breath ghosting against the window, he says, “They’re bleeding over. I’m seeing my nightmares while I’m awake. I saw— _that_ is why I struck your mirror.”

“Richard,” she says. She places her hand on his arm to gain his attention. The warmth of her touch bleeds through the fabric of his jacket. “You need to talk to someone about this.”

He rights himself in his seat and rolls his head against the headrest, finally looking at her. “I have an appointment with my psychiatrist next week.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. Okay. That’s—that’s good.”

He allows a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips. “Thank you.”

The change of topic throws her off, but she recovers quickly. “For what?”

“For understanding. This is the second day in a row I’ve disrupted our meeting.”

Alex smiles. “That’s okay. Third time is always the charm, right?”

“I suppose.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts to reach for the door handle.

“Hey,” Alex says, before he can make his escape. “Mind if I come up?”

“Why?” Strand flinches. He hadn’t meant to sound so curt. “I mean, why would you want to?”

“Well, I figured as much as you should get some rest, I don’t want to leave you without a car. Again. I can have Nic pick me up.”

Strand consents before he can remember the mess he left before Alex picked him up that morning. At the door, he stops. “Give me a moment.”

Alex smiles. “Sure.”

He slips through the door and closes it behind him. He allows himself only a second to rest his forehead against the door, already regretting his choice to allow her into his space, however temporary. With a breath to steel himself, he pushes himself away from the door. He holds his injured hand to his chest as he picks up discarded clothing and tosses them into one of the dresser drawers. 

A mirror hangs over the dresser, a throw blanket from the bed tossed over it. Strand debates taking it down, but the throb of his heartbeat beneath his bandages is enough to dissuade him.

He gives the room a final scan for any missed items, then opens the door to let Alex in.

She surveys the room before setting his laptop to the side and sitting on the end of his bed. “You didn’t have to clean up for my sake. I know the last thing I want to do when I’m exhausted is tidy up. And your hand—really, you didn’t have to.”

He stands in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do or what to say.

Alex’s keen eyes continue taking in her surroundings. His suitcase, pushed against the wall, the prints of Bob Ross-esque landscapes hung on the walls, the books stacked upon the dresser, a pile of papers written by his students, waiting to be graded. Finally, her head tilts when she sees the mirror. Or, rather, the blanket covering the mirror. “Mirrors—they’re a—a trigger for you?”

He glances at the mirror, but quickly turns away from it, fearful the blanket could fall at any moment. Behind the thin barrier the creature is an almost palpable presence. Smiling at him. Mocking him.

Alex smiles, trying to reassure him when no words come. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk this much about yourself. You probably hit your limit.” She pats the bed beside her. “Sit down. We can talk about something else while we wait for Nic.”

He hesitates, but sits beside her, stiff and uncomfortable.

Alex’s arm slides across his back, settling at his waist.

Strand flinches, unused to such contact.

Alex pulls away. “Sorry. I should have asked first. You just looked like you needed it.”

“No,” Strand says. “No, it’s—it’s fine.”

She places her arm around him again and tugs him to her, letting him lean into her side. Though she promised to switch topics of conversation, neither says anything at all. Until Alex’s phone buzzes in her pocket.

“Guess that’s my ride,” Alex says. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he says.

The silence, after she leaves, is oppressive. He turns on the television without looking, uncaring of the channel. He lies down on the bed, fully clothed, but finds sleep very far away.


	5. Chapter 5

Strand sits across from Alex in her office, her recorder between them.

At first sight of it, Strand fights the urge to bolt, to come up with an excuse—any excuse—to leave.

But Alex places it in the center of her desk, the power indicator light pointed in his direction. For once, the light is dark.

“Are you not going to record?”

Alex shakes her head. “I can see how anxious you are.”

“I am not—”

Alex smiles. “You _are_. So let’s get this straight, right off the bat.”

Strand’s frown deepens. “Get _what_ straight?”

“What happened—what you told me yesterday? That has nothing to do with the podcast. It was a private matter between the two of us. I’m not about to put sensitive information—information that could damage your reputation—on the air. I’m just not that kind of reporter.”

Strand sits back against his chair, stunned. Alex has poked her inquisitive nature into every other facet of his life. She’s described in detail Coralee’s disappearance, Charlie’s estrangement, his in-laws’ _adversarial position_. The Black Tapes themselves. This is the first time she’s promised not to air a particular, deeply personal detail.

“You okay?” she asks. “You look a little like I punched you in the face.”

“No,” he says. “I’m only...surprised.”

“I probably deserve that. And I’m sorry. I never meant to make you feel like you couldn’t trust me.”

“You’re a reporter. I should have expected you to be...curious.”

The corner of Alex’s lips turns up in a self-deprecating smile. “That’s probably the nicest way I’ve ever been called nosy. But, seriously, you _can_ trust me. With this, especially.”

She holds out her hand, pinky outstretched. Strand stares at it, uncomprehending at first, before entwining his pinky with hers. Alex gives their hands a definitive shake.

“Now, relax,” she says, sitting back in her computer chair, her eyes warm. “You said you had another Black Tape for me?”

Strand clears his throat. From inside his jacket pocket, he pulls out a brochure. Not the Black Tape he originally planned to bring her. He spent hours the previous night emailing back and forth with Ruby to put something together—something new, something different than his wretched Black Tapes. An apology, of sorts.

Alex slides the brochure to her. “Do you mind if I start recording?”

”Go ahead.”

Alex holds down the power button until the light turns green. She leaves it between them to better pick up their voices.

“Bayshore Gardens?” she asks.

“A case currently being investigated by the Institute. I thought you might like to join me on a preliminary tour before Ruby takes over for the official inquiry.”

“Really?” Alex flips through the pages of the brochure before looking at him. “I thought you weren’t taking new cases?”

“I’m not. Technically. While I am on sabbatical, the Institute hasn’t shut down in my absence.”

Alex grins. “So, we get to play real life ghost hunter?”

Strand breathes out a laugh, allowing himself to relax, at last. This, at least, is familiar to him. “If you insist on calling it that, yes. But I will warn you, most preliminary tours are enough to discredit claims of paranormal activity.”

Her hazel eyes sparkle. “Oh, well, in that case, I’ll try not to be _too_ disappointed.”

Strand forces himself to look away, before he can be caught up in the pull of her smile. “Yes, well, the gardens themselves should prove to be interesting, in any case.”

“I’m sure they will. What can you tell me about what’s going on? Or will that spoil the surprise?”

“It’s not much of a surprise, I’m afraid.” Strand pauses for effect. “Allegedly, the gardens are haunted.”

“Haunted?”

“I received a call from the director of the gardens. Guests complain of hearing strange noises, seeing shadows move in otherwise unoccupied areas. Some have even described an overwhelming desire to flee.”

“Sounds spooky.”

“Naturally, it’s more likely to be a simple case of—”

“Let me guess,” Alex says. “Apophenia?”

“I do not always—”

Strand stops. 

Alex grins at him, teasing.

He laughs, ducking his head to hide his smile. “Right.”

“So, when do we go?”

“The gardens are closed for ‘renovations’ while the Institute conducts our investigation. We may go at any time.”

“Awesome.” Alex turns to her computer screen. Her mouse clicks several times before she returns her attention to him. “Well, my schedule just opened up. I’m ready to go when you are.”

Strand raises his brows. “Now?”

“Yeah,” Alex shrugs. “Why not? I’m eager to see you doing your thing, out in the field.” 

“My _thing_ usually involves more use of the scientific method, but a walk through the gardens should be...pleasant.”

“I’m sure I’ll be suitably impressed, nonetheless.”

Heat crawls up the back of Strand’s neck. He is a man with many accolades after a lifetime of work, but it’s Alex’s offhand, teasing compliments which affect him the most.

Alex pulls open a drawer in her desk to gather her belongings. Her keys jangle as she holds them up. “Do you mind if I drive?”

“You know the area better than I.”

“Good, because I’d rather you didn’t drive with your hand like that.” She motions toward the gauze wrapped appendage. “How did you manage to drive over here?”

Strand shrugs. Truthfully, the drive had been unpleasant, the pain in his hand cutting through the handful of ibuprofen he swallowed that morning with his usual medication. “Very carefully.”

Alex peers at him. Finding nothing but his wry smile, Alex smiles back. 

 

Alex hums along to the music on the radio while Strand watches the landscape streak by through the passenger window. Rain falls, a light drizzle, more mist than anything.

He’s lulled by the intermittent swipe of the windshield wipers, the rumble of the car, and the whisper of Alex’s voice. His body relaxes, heavy and warm. He wraps himself further into his coat and closes his eyes. Perhaps he can rest, for just a moment, in the first peaceful silence since his nightmares returned.

 

He wakes with the memory of distant voices. Voices whispering the words _Guardian_ and _Soon_. But more importantly, he wakes to the sensation of fingers carding through his hair.

Alex smiles. “Hey. Sorry to wake you, but you were starting to look...distressed.” 

Strand shakes away the last threads of his dream. He sits up and rubs at his eyes, pressing his fingers in underneath his glasses. “Where are we?”

“We’re here.”

Strand scans the parking lot through the rain-spotted windshield to find the sign welcoming guests to Bayshore Gardens. “You should have woken me.”

Alex smiles. “We just pulled in. Though, I’m glad you were able to catch some sleep. You looked like you needed it.”

Strand huffs out a breath of laughter. “Thank you. That’s very much appreciated.”

“You’re very welcome,” Alex says, her eyes sparkling. 

In the process of unbuckling his seatbelt, he stops when Alex bends over his legs to retrieve her bag from the floor at his feet. Strand holds up both of his hands and tries to sit as still as possible, while a world of possibilities flash before his eyes.

Strand coughs and turns toward the window, hoping to hide the color rising in his face. He grabs for the door handle before remembering he still hasn’t unfastened the belt.

The seatbelt clicks before he can reach for it. Alex smiles at him, but doesn’t mention the flush burning in his cheeks.


	6. Chapter 6

Alex follows Strand to the visitor center. He raps at the glass with his uninjured hand, calling the attention of the security guard posted by the door.

“The gardens are closed to guests at this time,” the guard says.

Strand pulls his wallet from his back pocket. He flips through it, juggling it awkwardly in his bandaged hand, and slides a card from one of the pockets. He hands the card to the guard. “I’m Dr. Richard Strand and this is my associate, Alex Reagan. Dr. Esk gave permission for my Institute to investigate recent...complaints.”

Alex smiles. “He means the haunting.”

The guard’s eyebrows raise. “I see. I’ll have to check in with my supervisor. Wait here.”

Alex and Strand share a look before Strand turns to stare out in the empty parking lot, worrying at the bandage on his hand.

“Is it bothering you?” Alex asks.

Strand blinks, pulled abruptly out of his thoughts.

“Your hand,” Alex says, gesturing toward it. “Does it hurt?”

“Ah.” Strand looks at his hand. He twists it, examining it as if it doesn’t belong to him at all.

She probably should have let him sleep longer. Exhaustion burning behind his eyes. “You okay? We don’t have to do this today. You don’t have to prove anything if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“No,” he says, much too quick. He takes a breath and starts again. “It’s nothing. Really. Just a minor inconvenience.” 

“If you’re sure,” Alex says. 

If she closes her eyes, she can still see the shards of mirror embedded in his hand. She can still smell the coppery tang of his blood, followed by the strong antiseptic of the hospital.

He smiles, showing her a rare flash of teeth. It would suit him better if it weren’t a complete lie. “I am.”

Movement behind the glass exterior wall of the garden’s visitor center catches her eye before she can call him out on it. A different security guard opens the door and beckons them inside. 

“Sorry about the wait,” she says. “You’re coming is a bit out of the ordinary for us. Heck, being closed on a weekday is a bit out of the ordinary for us. Is this your whole team?”

Strand opens his mouth, but Alex carefully steps in before he can speak. “All present and accounted for. I’m Alex. Alex Reagan. I’m Dr. Strand’s assistant. Nice to meet you.”

Strand gives Alex a strange look before turning back to the security guard. “Alex and I will be doing the preliminary tour today. The rest of my team will be along in the next day or two for a more in-depth analysis.”

“Well, great. Hopefully that means we’ll be up and running again in no time. To be honest, everyone is a little on edge. It’s hard to get my guys to do rounds without them going out in pairs, which has put a strain on—” The security guard laughs. “Sorry, listen to me go on.”

The guard stops before the main desk and plucks a brochure from a plastic stand. “Here’s a map of the grounds. Dr. Esk gave us strict instructions to let you go about your business, but we wouldn’t want you getting lost. Have either of you been to the gardens before?”

Alex shakes her head while Strand studies the map.

“Well, despite all the craziness going on, it’s really quite beautiful this time of year.”

The guard lets them through the door into the gardens proper. She gives a cheerful wave and closes the door behind them.

Alex slips her arm into Strand’s, startling him. She smiles. “Let’s go catch us some ghosts.”

He laughs and doesn’t brush her away. If anything, he seems to lean into the contact. “Alleged ghosts.”

“Of course,” Alex says.

As they traverse the path, Alex loses herself in the color and fragrance of artfully arranged flora. Neither Alex nor Strand speak, enjoying the birdsong and buzz of bumblebees. 

The path comes to a fork.

Alex and Strand slow as they approach it.

“Should we make like Scooby-Doo and split up?” Alex asks.

Strand rotates his wrist, checking his watch. He glances up at the sky, still overcast despite the earlier rain. He frowns. “In the interest of time, perhaps we should.”

Disappointment floods through Alex. It was pleasant—more than pleasant—to walk through the gardens, pressed against Strand’s side in companionable silence. 

Alex checks the map. “Looks like the paths meet up again here, by the fountain. See you there?”

Strand nods, but for a long moment, neither moves.

Alex smiles. “Right. Okay.”

She walks down the left path, resisting the urge to look back. 

Alone, the gardens are still beautiful, but somewhere along the way the silence grows oppressive. Shouldn’t there be insects? Birds? Some sign of life?

The path is dark up ahead, shaded by large trees, with trunks so wide she wouldn’t be able to wrap her arms around them. 

The path itself disappears into underbrush. Alex’s sneakers crunch down on loose, dry leaves. 

If someone were to follow her, she wouldn’t be able to hear it.

She shivers and looks around. 

No one.

She laughs, rolling her eyes at her sudden paranoia. The gardens are closed, populated only by a skeleton crew of security guards, Alex, and Strand.

Strand would explain everything away as apophenia, of course. She expects something to frighten her and now her brain has interpreted her surroundings as to suit her expectations. 

She takes a breath and throws her shoulders back. She turns to continue following what’s left of the path.

A glittering reflection of the scant bit of light struggling in through the canopy above sends her heart rate rocketing.

Again, she laughs. 

A greenhouse. Just a greenhouse.

Alex struggles to read the map. Frustrated, she pulls out her phone to light the area. She follows the path with her finger, but the greenhouse isn’t labeled.

Alex sweeps the flashlight on her phone around the area. No signs, no warnings to stay away from the greenhouse.

Not off limits, then. Perhaps just forgotten, tucked away in the deepest part of the gardens.

Alex crunches through more leaves, leaving the path in favor of exploring the greenhouse, even as her heart still beats staccato in her chest.

She fights to swing the door open. Weeds have crawled their way up through the cracks in aged concrete, blocking the door from opening completely. She gets it about as wide as she can in order to slip inside and even then she has to hold her breath to do so.

Instead of a thriving jungle of plants, like the rest of the gardens, everything inside the greenhouse is dead. Set up in rows along low tables are troughs and planters, most empty aside from greyed soil and cobwebs. Others hold the skeletal remains of plants, choked by withered weeds draped over them like a priest’s stole.

Alex walks through the greenhouse. What kinds of plants used to be housed here? How long have they been left unattended? 

Something grabs her by the ankle. Alex shrieks.

Looking down, her foot is caught in a snare of vines, spilling from a trellis against the glass wall. Thorns stick into the soft mesh of her sneaker. A dot of blood rises from a thin scratch.

Alex rolls her eyes. First the greenhouse and now weeds. She’s a reporter—when did she completely lose her nerve?

She sets her phone down with the flashlight pointed up. She pulls at the vines to free herself.

A shadow catches in the corner of her vision. She shugs. Just another trick of her mind. Ridiculous.

The shadow moves again.

The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Slowly, hesitant, Alex looks up. 

The shadow stands tall and unnatural in the darkness of the greenhouse. Easily eight feet, the shadow towers over Alex. 

Alex blinks, but the vision stays the same. Long arms with long, spindly fingers hooked at the end like claws. Large, bug-like eyes stare at Alex, unblinking. Below its eyes is a mouth, vaguely human. It stretches into a grin, mouth full of sharp, shadowy teeth. It shakes, vibrating with something like excitement. 

Or laughter.

Alex screams.


	7. Chapter 7

Alex pulls hard, but the vines only become more and more ensnared. Needlelike thorns dig into her sneaker, past the cotton of her socks. More than once, she pulls away, her fingers pricked by the thorns.

She looks up again. The shadow has moved closer.

“Richard!” Alex screams.

He can’t hear her. Not this far out, not with her voice muffled by the greenhouse glass and the dense grove just outside. The vines are too strong to break with her bare hands. She left her pack in her car, along with the pocket knife buried at the bottom. She has nowhere to go, no way to escape.

No one to rescue her.

“Richard!”

With each blink the shadow gains more ground. It doesn’t walk on legs, nothing so human. It simply _moves_ , as fluid as an oil spill.

An animal howls in the distance. The sound echoes, reverberating down the base of her spine.

Another shadow? Somewhere out in the gardens?

 _Strand_. 

Alone, injured. Easy prey for whatever lies beyond the greenhouse.

Alex doubles her efforts to pull herself free. She has to run, has to get back to Strand, has to get them both back to the car and _away_.

As she pulls at the vines, her hands sticky with blood, darkness falls over Alex. She tumbles backwards, staring up at the clawed fingers of the shadow looming over her, raised to strike.

The greenhouse explodes. Or seems to. Alex screams and raises her arms instinctively against the rainfall of glittering glass.

For a long moment nothing happens. Alex holds her breath, hardly daring to make even the slightest movement.

The animal howls again. Much closer.

Too close.

Alex lowers her arms, instincts screaming at her to get away, get away _now_. She scrabbles at the dirt, trying to draw back, only to be caught by the vines entwined around her ankle, creeping up the denim of her jeans until it reaches her knee. 

She lets out a sob and covers her mouth to muffle the sound.

The animal standing in the center of the greenhouse isn’t an animal, at all. The creature walks on two legs, nearly as tall as the shadow, but hunched over under the weight of leathery, bat-like wings. Long, white hair hangs into its face. Behind the curtain of hair, glowing blue eyes narrow at the shadow. 

Even stranger is the gunmetal grey of its skin, raised in swirling patterns. The markings glow white, lit from within by some unearthly flame.

The winged creature growls from deep within its body. It charges at the shadow, using the beat of its wings to fly over rows of planters, toward its prey.

The shadow rakes its claws toward the creature, but the creature is faster. It dodges and rips through the shadow with a sound like torn fabric.

The shadow wobbles. It gives one last attempt at swiping its claws toward the creature before dissipating like a fine mist, back into the darkness from whence it came.

The vines fall away from Alex’s sneaker, dead and crumbling.

Alex scrambles backward as the creature turns its attention toward Alex. It stares at her intently before taking a heavy step toward her.

She struggles to her feet. She runs toward the entrance of the greenhouse. She’ll have to squeeze through again, but if she hurries, perhaps she can get through it before the creature catches her. Perhaps she can lose it in the woods. Perhaps she can get to Strand before the creature can get them both.

If it hasn’t gotten to Strand already.

She looks back long enough the see the creature take to its wings, to fly up and out of the hole left in the ruined roof of the greenhouse.

As soon as she clears the door, Alex runs. 

But not very far.

With a blast of air, kicking up leaves and dirt, Alex’s clothing and hair, the creature lands in front of her.

“Fuck!” She takes a step backwards and another as the creature approaches. “Richard!”

The creature cocks its head to the side. The glowing markings—more like scars than tattoos—flash.

The creature’s eyes go wide. With another blast of wind, it leaps into the air, its wings taking it higher and higher. The markings no longer glow, but shine. The light becomes so bright, Alex can no longer look at it straight on. She shields her eyes, but even that isn’t enough.

With a final flash, the light goes out.

Alex opens her eyes to see a body—a human body—hanging in the air, like a dummy on a string. It hovers for a moment, defying all laws of physics.

And then the body falls.

It lands with an echoing snap of bone and lies still.

When nothing happens, Alex picks her way toward the body.

A dark grey suit, ripped and torn. Pale skin. Dark hair. A white bandage wrapped around the wrist of the left hand.

Strand.

“No,” Alex says. She runs toward him, dropping to her knees beside him. ”Richard!”

Strand groans as he comes to. He tries to lift himself up, but cries out and curls around his arm, holding it protectively to his chest.

“Richard,” Alex says. “Richard, look at me. Are you alright?”

He blinks his eyes open. 

His eyes glow blue before the light fades.

“Alex?”

“What the _fuck_? What the hell was that?”

“I don’t—what?” Strand blinks, eyes unfocused without his glasses. He must have lost them when—Alex’s mind skips, like a scratched record. It’s not possible. It’s just not _possible_.

Alex helps him to sit up. “What do you remember?”

Strand shakes his head. “Nothing. I was—how did I get here?”

Alex hesitates. He won’t believe her. Alex hardly believes it herself.

“There was a shadow. Like on the Tapes you showed me, the one of Robert Torrez. It was—God, it was horrible. And it was coming right toward me. Until this _thing_ showed up. This crazy, winged _thing_. With glowing eyes and markings on its skin. It got rid of the shadow and then it—it flew up into the air and _changed_.”

It should be impossible for the color to drain from his face, but it does. His unfocused eyes go wide, boyish without his glasses. “No.”

“It was you. I know it sounds crazy, but that creature was _you_.”

Strand shakes his head, over and over again. His body rocks, back and forth. “No. No, no, no, no.”

“Tell me,” Alex presses. 

Strand clenches his eyes shut. “Wake up. Wake up.”

Alex plants her hands on both of his shoulders. “You’re not dreaming. Not unless I am, too. Tell me what the fuck is going on. What the fuck was that thing? What—what the fuck are you?”

Strand goes limp under her hands. His head lolls back. 

Just before he slips into unconsciousness, he whispers, “Guardian.”

 

Alex sits in the waiting room of the hospital, sprawled out along three chairs, her arm thrown over her eyes to block out the light.

Strand’s arm is broken. It’s a miracle he doesn’t have a concussion.

It’s a miracle either of them made it out of the gardens alive.

She saw it. She _saw_ it. The shadow. The creature. _Strand_.

It’s not possible. It can’t be possible.

But she saw it. It wasn’t apophenia. Her brain isn’t putting together random information.

She saw it. Right there, in front of her.

Alex groans and shifts on her makeshift bench. She aches to question Strand, but after the X-ray, he was taken to have his arm set in a cast.

It’s going to be a long wait.


	8. Chapter 8

Strand lies on his back in his bed in Chicago, his broken arm propped awkwardly on a pillow by his side.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, the second time it’s rung in the last hour. 

He turns onto his side as much as his useless arm will allow, the phone still buzzing. He will have to answer, eventually. He can only dodge Alex for so long, before she inevitably gets her way. But now, right now, he can do nothing more than lie in his bed.

But not to sleep.

The dreams are worse. The voices call to him, over and over. They call him Guardian.

Strand clenches his eyes closed and curses. 

What Alex told him is impossible. 

He isn’t the winged beast from his hallucinations. The creature behind the mirror lives only in the chemical unbalance of his mind.

But how would Alex know the contents of his dreams, his delusions? Where could she learn that information?

From Dr. Maloney? From Maloney’s receptionist? Or one of the nurses at his practice?

He’s only confided in two other people during his life. Coralee and…

Has Alex found out about Cheryll?

With Cheryll as much estranged from him as Charlie, with her name now changed after many years of marriage, how could Alex have discovered her?

Coralee’s parents.

June must have told Alex about Strand’s sister. About how close Coralee and Cheryll were before her disappearance. Closer than Strand has been with his twin since his diagnosis.

Cheryll must have revealed the secrets he once whispered, young and frightened, huddled under the blanket fort they built in the corner of the den.

Strand screws up his eyes against the burn of bitterness, mixed with age-old betrayal.

 

Dr. Maloney taps away at his computer, taking notes. He glances up only to the eye the cast, hanging in a sling around Strand’s neck, with a frown.

He increases the dosage of Strand’s medication. Doubles it, with instructions to call if his _situation_ changes for the worse.

After a week, exhausted, crumbling under the pressure of the voices whispering in his ears, Strand considers foregoing calling Dr. Maloney in favor of admitting himself to the hospital on his own.

It would be by his choice. His decision. Not his absent-minded, useless psychiatrist. Not his colleagues, so ready to see his career crash into the dirt, so ready to say “I told you so. He was always _too passionate_ , not cut out for the paranormal investigative world, after all.” 

Not Alex, the intrepid reporter, finally introduced to his madness.

Never Alex. 

Except he isn’t a danger to himself—the mirror incident notwithstanding—or to others. He’s dedicated to his work, both at the Institute and the seminar he’s teaching. To Alex and her podcast, as well. He cannot abandon his work. He cannot abandon _her_. Not when they’ve barely scratched the surface of his Black Tapes.

He returns to Seattle in time for his next seminar, having missed the last. Shadows stand at the back of the auditorium. The same shadows he saw as a child, the shadows he was convinced were stalking him and his family, back before he was finally diagnosed.

The sting of his father’s strap still burns on his skin. The fury in his father’s voice as he yelled at Strand to trust the facts still echoes in his ears.

Strand shakes his head. He’s spent at least a minute staring into the audience without saying a word.

He talks over the concerned murmur of students and pushes onward, ending class ten minutes early.

He sits in his car with his head in his hand for a long time. He eyes the briefcase sitting on the floor of the passenger side through his fingers. The briefcase contains another Black Tape, brought with him as an excuse to see Alex.

Some of the betrayal dissipated after nights of troubled sleep. Guilt pulls at his shoulders now, the weight heavy with regret. Her calls have trickled down to every other day. But, still, she calls. She leaves him messages laden with concern, her voice just as warm as her touch.

Her calls will stop, eventually.

He will be left, once again, with nothing but the voices in his head for company.

 

Strand lies to the receptionist at Pacific Northwest Stories. Alex expects him, he says. He’s late, he continues, having hit traffic on the way. She smiles and says, “Of course, Dr. Strand.” and “Go right in, Dr. Strand.” 

With a wink, she hands him a visitor’s badge and buzzes him through without further question.

Dread stirs in the pit of his stomach as he approaches Alex’s open door. What will she think? Weeks without contact and, without warning, he appears in her office?

His long strides slow, the soles of his shoes shuffling softly on the linoleum floor. He steps into her line of sight without crossing the threshold.

She sits at the desk, typing at her computer. She sweeps a stray hair behind her ear and bites at her bottom lip as she works.

He knocks before he can think twice, before he can turn around and head back to his hotel room, to bury himself in the stack of essays he collected from his students.

She looks up. Her expression morphs from surprise to concern in an instant. “Dr. Strand! I wasn’t expecting you. Come in, come in.”

The volume of the voices in his head dampens as soon as Strand crosses into her office. He collapses in one of the chairs in front of Alex’s desk, unable to hold himself upright as relief washes over him.

Alex leaps out of her chair, rounding the desk. Standing just beside him, she presses the back of her hand to his forehead, then his cheeks, and finally, she cups the back of his neck with her palm—checking him for fever. She watches him warily. “Sorry, you looked like you might pass out just then.”

Strand can’t focus on her words, however. 

The voices stop abruptly when her warm hand comes into contact with the cool, claminess of his skin.

“Dr. Strand?” Alex moves her hand away from him, like she overstepped his boundaries, but Strand catches it before the voices can come crashing back in on him. He presses it against his face and holds it there.

“Richard?”

His name again. He presses into her hand, knocking his glasses askew.

“Richard, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Impossible. How could Alex’s touch silence the voices? Voices which have followed him throughout his life, quietened, until now, only by antipsychotics?

Strand tears himself away from Alex. “I’m sorry. I need to—I need to use the restroom.”

Alex calls after him, half-heartedly teasing. “Try not to break any more mirrors.”

It’s an experiment. Nothing more. Just an experiment. Like those he’s conducted countless times in the past, comforted by the cool logic of the Scientific Method.

Question: Is Alex the key to shutting out the voices? Or has his medication chosen this particular moment to kick in?

Observation: The increase in the dosage of his medication has not improved his situation, as yet. Entering Alex’s office lessened the presence of the voices. Her touch extinguished them altogether. Now, as he strides further and further from Alex’s office, the voices whisper once again in his ears.

Hypothesis: It’s not his medication working to correct his disorder, but, somehow, against all possible explanation, Alex.

Experiment: Walking the distance from Alex’s office to the men’s restroom, measure—subjectively—the volume and rate at which the voices grow louder.

Analyze Da—

He can’t think. By the time he reaches the door to the men’s restroom, the voices are so loud, so insistent, he clenches his hands to resist the urge to cover his ears.

_Guardian._

_Guardian._

_Guardian._

_Soon._

Strand barely registers the alarmed look on a young intern’s face as he turns on his heel and returns to Alex’s office. 

To Alex.

“That was quick,” she says, as soon as he’s back in sight.

Strand enters and, again, drops into a chair. 

Alex disappears from his field of vision. The door closes behind him. 

“Hey,” she says, returning to his side. “If you’re not ready to talk, it’s okay. I’m not going to force you.”

A hand settles on his shoulder and squeezes. “I just want you to know. I’m really happy to see you. I was worried when you stopped answering my calls.”

He swallows. “Please don’t record this.”

“I won’t,” she says. Promises.

“I told you about my dreams, how they’re affecting me during the day.”

Alex squeezes his shoulder again, letting him know she’s listening, she remembers.

“In my dreams, there are voices. They whisper, call to me. They call me ‘Guardian.’”

“You said that word before,” Alex says, quiet.

“The voices—they won’t leave me alone, even while I’m awake. But, it’s better. Better when you’re near. When you...touch me.”

She doesn’t say anything, not for a long minute. Strand ventures a glance at her to find her staring into the middle distance, biting her lip.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. It all has to mean something.”

He groans. “It means my delusions have gotten worse, Alex. I can’t be—I can’t be some kind of Guardian, some kind of—of _monster_.”

“Why not?” Challenge burns in her voice. 

They aren’t discussing his Black Tapes. They aren’t debating over an alleged haunting. This is his _life_. This is his _illness_.

He folds over in his chair, careful not to crush his broken arm, and runs a hand through his hair. “Please. Don’t encourage this. I should be hospitalized, as it is.”

Alex squeezes his shoulder again, but this time, uses pressure to encourage him to sit up, to look at her.

“I saw it,” she says. “I know you don’t want to believe, that you think this is all impossible, but I _saw_ it. With my own eyes. It wasn’t a trick of the light or some kind of hallucination. You can’t explain this away with apophenia. It happened. And we’ll figure it out. Together. Okay?”

When she tugs him into an embrace, Strand goes willingly, content to let go of his denial long enough to sit in merciful silence and enjoy the sensation of her fingers carding through his hair.


	9. Chapter 9

At nine in the morning, Alex’s phone buzzes her out of an uneasy sleep.

Strand snuffles in his sleep, but the vibration of Alex’s phone on the desk doesn’t pull him out of the unconsciousness he all but fell into the evening before. 

Alex sits up, her back protesting after a long night spent in the floral wingback chair. She grabs at her phone before it can vibrate its way off the table. The number is blocked, but it’s not uncommon for Alex to receive calls from strange numbers. As a journalist, it comes with the territory.

She pads her way through the hotel room. She props the door open and retreats down the hallway before answering. “Hello?”

“Am I speaking with Alex Reagan?” asks a distorted voice, echoing and robotic. Disguised.

“This is she. May I ask who is calling?”

“My name is unimportant. I have information regarding Richard Strand. I’d like to meet with you. Crimson Cafe. Noon.”

“Wait a minute,” Alex says. “What kind of information—”

The call ends.

Alex rolls her eyes. As a reporter, this kind of cryptic Deep-Throat nonsense isn’t uncommon, either.

What kind of information could this stranger have on Strand? Why contact her? So she can air the information on her podcast? For what purpose? To hurt Strand?

She already knows about his dreams. She knows about the Guardian. What else could Strand be hiding?

Her cheeks light up shame. It’s not up to her to drag up every sordid detail of his life. The focus on her podcast is the paranormal. Or, rather, Strand’s relationship with the paranormal via his Black Tapes.

And Coralee.

Could the information be regarding the disappearance of Coralee Strand?

She owes her listeners any update she can get on the Coralee case.

Doesn’t she?

At Strand’s expense?

Alex bites her lip.

Strand sits upright on the bed when she returns to his room, his hair sticking up wildly on one side, blinking slowly.

“Thought you’d gone,” Strand says, voice gravel rough.

The sound sends a pleasant shiver down her spine. “Nope, still here. I got a call and didn’t want to wake you. You can go back to sleep if you want. I have a meeting at noon, apparently, but I can sit with you for a little longer.”

“‘M awake.”

Despite the tired slur of words, Strand’s eyelids flutter closed. He sways, then shakes his head, like he can physically shake away the last remaining dregs of sleep. 

Alex smiles. “You are _so_ not a morning person.” 

Strand’s lips twitch in a miniscule smile, so small Alex nearly misses it. He blinks, long and slow. Alex expects him to fall back onto the pillows, out like a light, but he presses the heel of of his palm against his eye and makes a concentrated effort to rouse himself. “Who are you meeting with?”

Alex winces. She could make something up, tell him the meeting is with Nic, tell him it has something to do with logistics or expense reports or any of the other mundane tasks she performs back at Pacific Northwest Stories when she isn’t out in the field. 

“I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

Strand hums as he pushes his glasses onto his face.

“The call I received, it was someone claiming to have information about you. They asked to meet with me and hung up before I could say anything else.”

Strand frowns. His hand balls into a fist. He stares hard at the rumpled bedding. His voice, when he speaks, comes out halting, tight, laced with an emotion Alex cannot name. “You are going alone?”

Alex shrugs. “It’s not the first time I’ve gone to a meeting like this. It’ll be a crowded cafe, nothing to worry about.”

The knuckles of Strand’s fist pale to white. 

Right. Not helping, Alex. 

If she’s willing to go this far, she might as well go all the way.

“Listen,” she says. “it’s not like these are State secrets. Come with me.”

Strand’s blue eyes meet hers.

“It’s your life,” she continues. “I don’t know what this person has to say or how relevant it will be to the podcast, but you deserve to know if someone is walking around with information about you. Especially if it’s something they could use to hurt you.”

Strand runs his hand through his hair. He sighs. “I won’t be in your way?”

Alex smiles. “Not at all. I got to see you do your thing, now you get to see me do mine. Now, why don’t you shower and get changed? After, we can go down to the lobby and get breakfast.”

Strand nods. 

It takes him a full minute to crawl out of bed, doing so with a regretful look at the rumpled sheets. He rifles through the dresser before grabbing a handful of clothing and shuffling into the bathroom.

Alex smothers a laugh. He is _absolutely_ not a morning person.

 

Alex taps at the steering wheel, her lower lip caught between her teeth. With every red light Strand’s unease becomes more and more apparent. Which, in turn, fills Alex with a rising sense of dread. She’s done this sort of thing, meeting with anonymous informants, before. Dozens of times. But something tells her this time will be different.

And not just because Strand is at her side.

They walk toward the iron-wrought bistro tables set outside the cafe, busy with the rush of lunchtime patrons. A pair of students argue over an open textbook. Two women, dressed in business suits, lean back in their chairs as they sip at frappuccinos. A couple share a lingering kiss before parting ways.

Strand freezes. The person behind him makes a sound of disgust at his sudden stop and several others duck around him.

Oblivious of the grumbling, Strand’s eyes lock on one of the tables. Alex follows his gaze to see a woman sitting with her long legs crossed, her hands wrapped around a ceramic mug.

A wide-brimmed hat and large, oval sunglasses obscure the majority of her face. She wears a pinstripe black dress, which hugs each of her generous curves, and a pair of patent leather pumps. At her side sits a handbag. Something name-brand, if Alex were to hazard a guess. 

She’s beautiful, stunning even, like a star stepped straight out of a film.

Alex drags her gaze away from the woman. She looks at Strand, a question on her lips, stalled by the riot of emotions behind his eyes.

“Richard?” Alex asks, brows drawn in concern. “Do you recognize that woman?”

He swallows. Nods.

“And? Who is she?”

The words are no more than a breath, lost in the murmur of the crowd. “My wife.”


	10. Chapter 10

Strand’s wife? His _missing_ wife? The same wife presumed dead for two decades? “Coralee? Coralee Strand?”

They are far enough away for Alex’s words not to travel, but the woman looks up. She examines Alex first and then Strand.

Her painted lips do not smile. Instead, she arcs her hand in a single, cursory wave.

Strand doesn’t move, his muscles coiled tight enough Alex fears he might run. Not toward Coralee. Not to scoop his wife into his arms. Not to spin her around like something out of a romantic comedy. But away. Back to Alex’s car. Back to his hotel room and, from there, back to Chicago.

He startles when Alex places her hand at the small of his back. She presses against the cotton of his shirt so he can feel the warmth of her skin on his. To ground him.

To comfort him?

To soothe the sudden, electric urge to protect him arcing beneath her own skin?

To distract herself from the flash of possession crackling just beneath the surface?

Alex frowns, but she doesn’t remove her hand. She guides him through the throng of cafe patrons, toward the table. Wordlessly, they sit down.

Strand sits farthest from Coralee, his chair pushed away from the table.

Coralee places her mug down on the matching saucer, her nails freshly manicured, the tips painted a flawless white. “Hello, Alex. Richard, it’s good to see you.”

Strand’s eyes catch on Coralee, bright with a mix of grief and disbelief.

“You’re the one with information about Strand?” Alex asks.

Coralee nods. “I am.”

“ _Why?_ ” Alex shakes her head. “I mean, you disappeared twenty years ago. Why come forward now? Why come forward at all?”

“The benefits outweighed the risks.”

“What risks? Do they have anything to do with why you disappeared?”

Coralee uncrosses her legs and recrosses them the other way. “In part.”

“In part?”

Coralee turns to Strand. “I imagine you have some questions.”

Strand’s hand clenches and unclenches in his lap.

Coralee tilts her head with a small smile. “Richard? After all these years, you don’t have anything you want to say to me?”

His hand grips at his thigh, the knuckles bone white as his fingers dig into the fabric of his slacks.

Alex reaches over and unhooks his fingers. She takes his hand and holds it on her lap. “Don’t be cruel.”

Behind her sunglasses, Coralee watches Alex’s thumb trace patterns on Strand’s skin. She cocks an elegantly arched eyebrow. “I see.”

“What did happen?”

“I went into hiding.”

Strand squeezes Alex’s wrist.

“Why?” Alex asks.

Coralee takes a sip from her mug. “Now, that’s where things get a little more complicated.”

Alex forces herself to count to three. “Complicated.”

“Tell me,” Strand says, voice hoarse. “Please.”

Coralee’s expression softens. “I never meant to hurt you, Richard.”

Strand shakes his head. “Tell me.”

“For what it’s worth,” Coralee continues, “I _am_ sorry. But I needed everyone to think I was dead. I couldn’t have you looking for me.”

“I looked,” Strand says. “For five days. Before I was arrested.”

“I know,” Coralee says. “I did what I could to clear your name. I have connections—”

“Connections?” Strand asks. “Everyone— _everyone_ —thought me guilty. The police, your parents, our daughter. Even my _sister_. If you wanted a divorce—”

He huffs out a self-depreciative laugh. “I would have signed the paperwork, Coralee.”

“I know, Richard,” Coralee says. She sighs. “I never wanted—I did what I had to do to keep you safe. Both you and Charlie.”

“Safe?” Alex asks. “What does that mean? Safe from what?”

“I should start from the beginning,” Coralee says. She purses her lips for a short moment, thinking. “There’s no easy way to put this.”

“Then do it the hard way,” Alex says. “You owe this to Strand.”

“Very well.” Coralee tilts her head to the side. “You’re special, Richard. You always have been.”

Strand’s brows draw downward. “What?”

“My organization has watched your family for generations. Waiting for your Change.”

“My— _what_?”

Coralee smiles, bittersweet. “You aren’t sick, Richard. You are a Guardian. _The_ Guardian. The demons you’ve been seeing since you were a child aren’t hallucinations. They aren’t delusions. They’re real.”

Strand shakes his head. “No.”

“Yes, Richard.” Coralee says. “Your father alerted us when you first began to see the demons. The Tall Men, you called them. We knew then the Change would likely happen during your lifetime.”

Strand shakes his head again. He clutches at Alex’s hand, so tight Alex has to flex her fingers to encourage blood flow. “My father.”

“We all had our parts to play. Your father was to continue your mother’s line and to watch you and your sister for any signs of the Change. At the same time, Howard was to continue his research. After you grew up, after you distanced yourself from your father, I—well, essentially I was to be your handler.”

Strand stares at Coralee.

“His handler,” Alex asks, quiet, careful. “You mean your marriage was a lie?”

“Yes.”

Strand lets out a broken breath, somewhere in between a laugh and a sob.

“I know what happened at Bayshore Gardens,” Coralee continues. “I know the Change has already happened. We have much to discu—”

Strand stands, his hand slipping out of Alex’s as he backs away from the table.

Coralee stands, as well. She reaches out, tries to put her hand on his arm, to stop him from leaving. “Richard.”

Strand wrenches himself away from her. “Don’t touch me.” 

Without another word, he stalks into the dwindling crowd.

Alex looks at his retreating back, then back at Coralee. She shakes her head and chases after Strand.

She stops just in front of him, blocking his way while respecting his wish not to be touched, even if it was directed at Coralee. “Wait. Shouldn’t we stay and hear this out? Find out what she knows?”

Strand ducks around Alex. “I refuse to be a part of this charade any longer. Talk with her or not. I’ll be waiting by the car.” 

“Richard,” Alex calls, before his long legs can eat up the distance between them.

Strand pauses, then shakes his head. He doesn’t look back. Not at Alex, nor his long-lost wife.

Alex returns to their table, but finds Coralee’s seat empty. Between the bottom of her empty mug and the saucer is a napkin with a hastily scrawled note.

_I’ll be in touch. Take care of him for me._


	11. Chapter 11

Alex watches Strand out of the corner of her eye, whenever she can safely take her eyes off the road. He sits in the passenger seat, hands clenching and unclenching into fists, his jaw tight, his eyes intense.

Without asking, Alex unbuckles herself and follows him up to his room. She sits on the bed as he paces back and forth in the small space between the bed and the dresser. 

“I know you’re upset,” she says. “Angry. You have every right to be. But she is your wife. Don’t you think we should find out what she knows?”

Strand falters in his next step. His expression hardens. “She’s not my wife. She never was.”

“That’s...fair,” Alex says. Even that seems like an understatement. 

“But think about it,” she continues. “She has information we don’t. Our best option to is to—”

Strand stops. “To what? To think about this rationally? Don’t speak to me about rational.”

“Strand—”

A mirror hangs above the sink, just outside the bathroom. Strand tacked a blanket over it, just as he’d done in his last hotel room. He strides over to it and rips the blanket down from the wall. “What do you see?”

Alex follows him to the sink. In the mirror, she sees Strand. Tall. Lanky. Dark hair with just a touch of grey at the temples. Bright blue eyes behind a pair of rectangular glasses, the frames a thick black. Stubble grown in, just a bit. “I see you.”

“Describe me,” he says.

“I see the man I’ve always seen. A little different from when we first met, but I’d like to think it’s because I know you better now.”

Strand stares at his reflection. His shoulders hitch with a breath of laughter. “That’s not what I see.”

“What do you see?” Alex asks.

“I see the creature. The one from my nightmares. The Guardian you and Coralee claim me to be.”

Alex looks hard at the mirror, but she can’t see the silver-skinned winged beast who saved her from the shadow in the Gardens. “Don’t you think that might be a sign? That we’re telling the truth? That this _is_ real?”

Strand doesn’t answer. His brows draw down in a miserable line as he stares at his reflection.

Alex turns him away from the mirror. She leads him to the bed and pulls on his uninjured arm, urging him to sit.

He sits.

Alex moves into the space between his open knees. She cups his face. “I know this seems impossible. But what if it isn’t? What if everything Coralee said is true?”

He stares at her, eyes full of conflict. 

He sighs and lets his eyes close.

Slowly, so slowly, he turns his head to kiss the palm of her hand.

Heat pools between her thighs at the touch of his lips.

What would he look like, spread out on the bed, the comforter rumpled, the fingers of his good hand twisting in the fabric as he fights to keep his composure? What sounds would he make if she knelt down, right here, right now, and took him into her mouth?

Her face goes hot with shame. 

Alex backs away. “I’m sorry. I should go. You probably have a lot to think about. And I—”

Should go, before she does something incredibly stupid.

“I’m sorry.” Strand doesn’t follow her, doesn’t reach out. He sits on the bed, his shoulders rounded. “I overstepped.”

“No,” she says. “No, it’s okay. I just—you don’t need this right now. You’re upset. You just saw your wife after nearly twenty years. She—there’s a lot to process. So I should go and let you—”

“Stay,” he says. “Please.”

Against her better judgement, Alex stays. 


	12. Chapter 12

Alex wakes, wrapped in Strand’s arms. He holds her close to him, his broken arm resting on her hip.

She watches him sleep. The lines around his eyes have smoothed out. He breathes softly through slightly parted lips. The tension held in his broad shoulders has eased, somewhat.

Alex smiles. She cups his cheek, caressing the skin beneath his eye with her thumb.

She resists the urge to kiss him and tries to extricate herself from him to keep herself from doing so.

Strand snuffles and pulls her back in, burying his face in her shoulder.

Alex laughs softly and smooths his hair. “I’ll be right back.”

He grumbles, but lets her slip out of his hold. 

She rolls out of bed and heads for the bathroom. A blanket hangs over this mirror, as well. For lack of a toothbrush, she swishes a mouthful of mouthwash and spits it into the sink. She lifts the corner of the blanket to check the state of her mascara, now smudged beneath her eyes. She swipes as much of it away as she can with only water. Looking down, she makes a face at the wrinkled wreck of her clothing. She’ll have to go home and get changed before they go anywhere.

Strand is awake when she returns. Or something passing for awake. He stares groggily at the ceiling, blinking slowly. 

“Phone,” he grumbles.

Alex’s phone buzzes on the bedside table. She grabs for it before it can stop ringing, but misses it just as it goes still.

She frowns as she picks it up, looking at the screen. Another blocked number. Coralee?

She sits at the edge of the bed and sets her phone back on the table. “How did you sleep?”

Strand presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Mm.”

Alex laughs. “You going to get up or go back to sleep?”

“Mm.”

“There are giant robots right out the window, destroying the city as we speak.”

“Mm.”

“Good talk,” Alex says, patting his arm. A grin spreads across her face. 

Strand’s lips twitch upward. “Giant robots are infeasible, as well as inefficient, as a means to destroy a city.”

“Oh, so you were awake.”

He groans. The sound sends something electric through her. “It’s possible I’m still asleep, but my dreams are nowhere near this pleasant.”

He says it so off-hand, as if it’s nothing but a remark on the weather, but it’s enough to sober her. “What do you dream about?”

Strand frowns. “I’m wrapped in chains. Locked away somewhere dark. I’m hungry—ravenous. My captors, the voices I hear, they call out to me.”

“They call you Guardian,” Alex says.

Strand wrestles himself upright. “Yes. They do.”

“And you hear them during the day, when you’re not asleep?”

Strand nods. “Except—”

His frown deepens.

“Except when I’m near,” Alex says.

Strand nods.

What could that mean? Why do the voices in his head only respond to her? “Okay, so—“

Alex’s phone buzzes. Not with a phone call, but a text message, from a string of numbers and letters resembling an email address.

 

  
**rh10n@hgc0lro.us:**   
  
_If you want to know more, meet me at this address at 13:00._   


 

Another message comes through with an address for another cafe.

“Coralee?” Strand asks. 

Alex nods. “She wants us to meet with her again. I think we should go.”

Strand doesn’t answer.

“It’s better than sitting here, isn’t it? At least Coralee knows something. More than we do, in any case.”

Strand fiddles with the edge of his cast, peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his white button-down.

“Richard.”

He looks up.

“I’m going to go. I can’t not go. I’m not going to push you into coming with me, but my gut says this is important.”

Strand searches her face.

Footsteps thump outside Strand’s room, followed by the excited chatter of a small boy. 

Strand sighs. “I’ll go.”

Alex releases a breath, unaware of having held it in the first place. She smiles. “Okay. Good. I’m glad.”

 

Coralee sits in the shadow of an awning, her face covered with sunglasses and another large hat, even as the sky threatens rain. 

“Thank you for meeting with me,” she says, once they sit down. 

“It’s not as if we had another choice,” Strand says. He crosses his legs and leans back in his seat. He smiles his wry smile. Behind his glasses, his eyes have turned cool. 

Calm. Collected.

Detached, more like. Untouchable.

Like the man Alex first met, all those months ago. After eleven missed calls and one enormous favor from his publicist. 

“Unfortunate, yet true,” Coralee says. A smile plays about her lips. “Yet you’re here, despite how much I know you’d like to be otherwise.”

“Tell us more,” Alex says. “What do you know about Strand being some sort of Guardian?”

Coralee turns to Strand. “What do you know of the Order of the Cenophaes?”

He blinks, the only sign he isn’t unaffected by the sudden turn of the conversation. “They’re a sect of reclusive monks, so about as much as anyone else.”

“Wait,” Alex says. “Monks?”

“Possibly unlike any Christian monks you’ve heard of,” Strand says. “As for the Order, cult would be a better descriptor.”

Alex frowns. “Cultists. What do they have to do with anything?”

“They worship a goddess from ancient Babylonian lore,” Coralee says. “Tiamat.”

“Tiamat,” Strand says, straightening with a small jolt. “My father—”

Coralee holds up a hand. “I know. I’ll get to that. But first, would you like to explain the lore, for Alex’s benefit?”

Strand’s eyes narrow at Coralee, but soften when he glances at Alex. “Tiamat is an essential part of the Babylonian creation myth. She’s a chthonic goddess, a deification of the primordial sea. She, the salt sea, and her mate Abzu, the sweet sea, mingled to create children. Gods and goddesses Abzu thought would grow up to usurp his throne. He attempted to kill his own children, but was killed instead. 

“Urged to seek revenge, Tiamat created monsters—demons, to use Western terminology—to wreak havoc upon the world. Ultimately, she was stopped by Marduk, a storm god. He killed her and used her body to create the heavens and the earth, thus cementing his place as the head of the Babylonian pantheon.”

“The Cenophaes revere Tiamat,” Coralee continues. “They have spent centuries attempting to return her to power.”

“They want to bring her back from the dead?” Alex asks.

“Ah,” Coralee says. “No. Nothing so simple as that.”

Strand scoffs.

“Simple—?” Alex asks.

Coralee holds up a hand. “The Cenophaes plan to tear open the fabric of this world, to release Tiamat’s demons onto this plane.”

“Supposing all of this is true,” Strand says, a hard edge to his voice, “how do these people plan to do such a thing?”

“With something they call the Mysterium. We haven’t been able to infiltrate their ranks, but we’ve heard whispers.”

Strand shakes his head.

“What does this Mysterium do?” Alex asks. “How does it work?”

“All we know is the Cenophaes have been hammering at the boundaries between worlds. A handful of demons have slipped through the cracks, but they need the key to break through entirely.”

“The key? You mean Strand?”

“No,” Coralee says. “Not Richard. Though he does play an integral part. No, we have reason to believe that key is _you_ , Alex Reagan.”

Alex laughs. She presses a hand to her chest. “Me?”

“Richard has been able to see these demons since he was a child, but his Change hasn’t been triggered until now. When you were in danger, Alex. At the Bayshore Gardens.”

“Why—?” Alex swallows. “Why me? I’m just a reporter.”

“Not just a reporter anymore,” Coralee says. “As the key, you hold the power to use a certain artifact. An artifact capable of destroying the world, but also saving it.”

“The artifact," Strand says. "The one my father spent his life searching for—”

“Howard found it,” Coralee interrupts, “just before he was murdered. We now have it in our possession.”

Strand frowns. “My father wasn’t murdered.”

Coralee looks at Strand, expression expectant. It's the same sort of look Strand gives others, when he thinks they're being purposely dense.

Strand closes his eyes, his features falling. “By whom?”

“The Cenophaes,” Coralee says. “I’m sorry, Richard.”

Strand lets out a breath.

“Sorry,” Alex says. “You said ‘our possession.’ Do you mean the organization you were part of before you went into hiding? The one that’s been watching Strand and his family?”

Coralee plays with a gold ring on her finger. “No. The leader of that organization and I had a...difference of opinion. That’s why I went into hiding. A few others, fearing for their safety, joined me. My team have done our work in secret. Until now.”

“And so what is this artifact I’m supposed to use to save the world?” Alex asks.

“The Horn of Tiamat,” Strand says.

Coralee nods. “The last piece of the goddess Tiamat before her body was used to make the heavens and the earth.”

“And Strand’s role? He—the Guardian—he’s supposed to protect me? Like he did in the Gardens?” 

“Yes. He will ensure you come to no harm.”

Alex opens her mouth only to realize she has no idea what she has to say. She looks between Coralee and Strand. “This is..a lot. A lot to take in.”

“It is,” Coralee says.

Alex turns to Strand. “I’m surprised you haven’t run off, screaming.”

He runs a hand through his hair. He ducks his head with a breath of laughter. “As am I.”

Coralee pulls her handbag onto her lap. She opens it and takes out a white envelope. “I have been asked to extend an invitation to you. To both of you. A safe haven, away from demons and cultists while we discover how to use the Horn to stop the Cenophaes from achieving their goals.”

“A safe haven. Do you really think that necessary?” Strand asks.

“I do.” She slides the envelope to the center of the table.

Alex reaches over to take it. She slips her index finger under the sealed edge and pulls out the contents. “These are plane tickets. To New Mexico?”

“Someone will be there to pick you up and take you to our headquarters. It’s too dangerous to give out address. I’m sure you understand.”

Strand shakes his head. “Headquarters.”

Coralee smiles. “Hard to believe, I know.”

“And somehow the least difficult to believe out of everything you’ve told us.”

“What if we don’t take up your offer?” Alex asks. “What if we refuse to go?”

“The Horn cannot leave our possession. The world will be lost if it falls into the wrong hands. Just as it will be lost if you refuse my invitation.” Coralee rises, prompting both Alex and Strand to stand, as well. She holds out her hand for Alex to shake.

Alex takes it, even as thoughts swirl inside her head. Thoughts like _How_ and _Why_ and _Holy Shit_.

Coralee extends her hand to Strand. Strand doesn’t move to take it.

Coralee shrugs. “Goodbye, Alex. Goodbye, Richard. I hope you will take up mine and my associates’ offer.”

Without another glance, Coralee turns and walks away. Alex and Strand watch her as she goes, until long after she disappears from view.

“So?” Alex asks. “What do you think? Should we go?”

Strand sighs. His fingers worry at the edge of his cast. “Given everything Coralee said is true, her associates are in possession of the one tool we need to stop this supposed apocalypse.”

“You’re saying we have no choice but to go.”

“Precisely.”

Alex lets out a breath. Her shoulders already ache with the weight of the responsibility thrust upon her. “There’s really nothing like finding out the fate of the world is in your hands before you’ve had a chance to eat lunch.”

Strand laughs. “No, I suppose not.”

“That being said, is it weird that I’m starving? Because I’m starving.”

Strand cocks his head, considering. “I could eat.”

Alex smiles. She takes his arm, just as she did in the gardens. By some unspoken agreement, they return to Alex’s car, rather than eat at the cafe. They get drive-thru burgers and eat in comfortable silence as the rain threatening all morning finally falls. 


	13. Chapter 13

A nondescript man in a nondescript pair of khakis and a pastel polo shirt stands at the baggage pickup for their flight.

“You think that’s him?” Alex asks. “That has to be him. He keeps staring at us.”

Strand hefts his duffle bag and, before Alex can pick her small suitcase from the revolving belt, claims that as well.

“You don’t have to,” Alex says.

The corner of Strand’s lip tugs upward. He doesn’t relinquish her luggage. Instead, he nods in the direction of the man. “If that is indeed Coralee’s associate, we shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Alex bumps her shoulder into his, careful of his arm. “Thanks.”

Without introducing himself, the man says, “Alex Reagan. Dr. Richard Strand. This way, please.”

Alex and Strand exchange looks, but they follow as the man heads in the direction of the parking garage.

 

Alex steps into cool darkness, following behind the man in the polo, Strand at her back. 

A cave. An _actual_ cave. Located somewhere in the deserts of New Mexico, the exact location lost after having been _blindfolded_ in the parking garage of the airport and driven around for what seemed like hours.

How has her life come to this?

Almost immediately, they come upon a manmade wall, built with heavy cement blocks. The man in the polo raps at the the thick metal door set in the center of the wall and whispers a word. 

The door swings open on silent hinges.

Beyond the door is a man dressed in paramilitary gear, black from head to toe. In his hand, held at the ready, is a rifle.

“Is that really necessary?” Alex asks.

The man in the polo continues on in silence.

They walk down a long corridor. It’s subtle, but the ground shifts below their feet. They aren’t walking straight on, but down at gradual slope. Lights hung from rafters above them illuminate the dark of the cave. Generators hum out of sight with bundles of ziptied extension cords running along the base of the cave wall.

They round a corner and Alex stops abruptly, nearly causing Strand to collide into her.

A large cavern, transformed into something much like the Pacific Northwest Studios on days an important story is scheduled to drop. Men and women rush from desk to desk, from computer to computer, from whiteboard to whiteboard, trafficking information. They speak in hushed voices, all completely wrapped up in their work. 

Until a woman looks up from her computer. She stops typing mid-stroke and stares. 

One by one, others stop their work. Until the cave is silent but for the hum of generators and dozens of eyes have turned their way.

Out of the crowd walks Coralee Strand.

“Thank you for coming,” she says.

Like a switch flipped, the crowd snaps back to work.

“This is quite the set up,” Alex says.

Coralee smiles. “It’s the best we could do with our resources. Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

“Room?” Strand asks.

Coralee gives him a quick look, something like surprise flashing through her eyes. “We had to do some shuffling, as it is. I hope it won’t be a problem?”

“No,” Strand says.

Alex shakes her head. “Not at all.”

“Very well.” Coralee leads them through the bustle of people, down another corridor. “These are our sleeping quarters.”

“They look more like cells,” Strand says.

Cinder blocks stacked upon one another form each ‘room,’ with curtains hung on tension rods functioning as doors. A single light bulb hangs from rafters built above them, its yellowed glow barely enough to light the cube Coralee shows them into. A mattress and boxspring pushed against the far wall take up the majority of the space. A trunk sits at the end of the bed, presumably the only place to store personal belongings.

“We’ve learned to make due with what we have.” Coralee says. “It’s safe, and that’s what counts.”

“The Horn of Tiamat,” Alex says, having taken in the small space. “Can we see it?”

Coralee’s lips pull into a tight smile. “You must be tired after your trip. Why don’t you take the day and rest?”

Alex opens her mouth, but Coralee shakes her head. “Rest, please. I assure you, there will be plenty of time to study the Horn.”

Strand frowns.

“You are free to explore, of course, but we must request you do not record anything you see or hear. It’s a security risk we cannot afford at this juncture, you understand.”

“I understand,” Alex says.

“If you need anything, you only need to ask. We will do what we can to accommodate you, as long as your request is reasonable.”

With that, Coralee turns and leaves, the curtain wafting in her wake.

Alex sits on the edge of the bed while Strand lets his duffle bag fall from his shoulder onto the cave floor. He places Alex’s luggage beside it, where it takes up the remaining walk space.

“What do you think?” Alex asks.

Strand hesitates, then sits beside Alex. “I’m not sure.”

Alex smiles. She leans into his side. “To be completely honest, neither do I.”

They sit, Strand’s watch ticking away the minutes in the quiet of the cave. Alex tries to relax, tries to rest after the hassle of the airport and their flight, but her skin practically itches to leave their cubby, to explore every nook and cranny of Coralee’s headquarters, to interview the people she saw in the cave, to find out their stories.

“I don’t think I can just sit here,” Alex says.

“Neither do I,” Strand says.

Alex smiles. She stands from the bed. “In that case, let’s take a look around.”

 

They explore as much of the cave as they are allowed to, but no one, not one person, will talk to them.

“They won’t even answer simple questions,” Alex complains, once they’ve returned to their room. She flops down onto the mattress, bouncing once before settling. “I asked one man if he enjoys the weather in New Mexico and, I swear, he looked like he was ready to bolt.”

“My experience was much the same,” Strand says. “It could be that we’re outsiders. None of them know whether or not they can trust us.”

Alex sighs. “No one but Coralee, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” 

Alex sits up. “No?”

Before Strand can continue, the curtain sweeps back and the man with the pastel polo enters. He carries a tray with two microwave dinners, steam wafting from under the plastic wrap.

“Oh, hello,” Alex says. “Is that for us?”

The man avoids Alex’s eyes as he crosses the short space into the room, to place the tray on the trunk at the end of the bed. “We don’t have a formal dining area.”

“Oh, okay. Well, thanks.”

The man nods and leaves, his lips pressed into a tight line.

Strand picks up one of the dinners and passes it to Alex. He sits down next to her with his own.

“You were right,” Alex says, picking at something resembling chicken, drowned in a thick, brown gravy.

“In what instance?” Strand asks. He picks vegetables out of the brown lump posing as dessert, but makes no move to bring anything to his mouth.

“It feels a lot like we’re in a prison.”

Strand hums in agreement. 

“She was pretty cagey when I mentioned the Horn. And then insisted we take the rest of the day to relax. Doesn’t that seem strange, what with the end of the world on the line?”

“Yes.”

Alex places her dinner down on the tray. “You think she lied to us? To get us to come here?”

“I can't say for certain, but it’s likely.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Strand abandons his own meal. “How?”

“We find Coralee and ask to see it.”

“And if she refuses?”

“Then we leave. Find the Horn ourselves.”

They navigate the tunnels until they reach the main cavern. Fewer people occupy the space than earlier in the day and those remaining chew thoughtfully at their own tray dinners as they work.

Coralee meets them in the center of the cavern, two men in paramilitary gear following close behind.

The man in the pastel polo shuffles in the corner of Alex’s vision. Alex turns her head to look, but he refuses to meet her eyes.

“What’s going on?” Strand asks. He stops abruptly and places his arm out, stopping Alex from going any further.

Alex follows his hard glare to the rifles held at each man’s hip, pointed directly at Alex and Strand.

Coralee smiles. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you both return to your room.”

The man in the pastel polo shifts again, before he ducks behind a huddled group of men and women watching the exchange with interest. 

Alex frowns. “You were watching us.”

Coralee nods. 

“You don’t even have the Horn of Tiamat, do you? You lied to us.”

Coralee’s lips purse. “For your own safety.”

“Why?”

“You would not have come, otherwise.”

Alex shakes her head. “You can’t be serious.”

She motions to the men flanking Coralee, their weapons still trained on herself and Strand. “And, what? You’re going to hold us prisoner until you _do_ have it? What then?”

“You’re not being held prisoner.” Coralee tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “But I cannot let you leave.”

Alex ducks past the barrier of Strand’s arm. The men raise their rifles.

Behind her, Strand’s grits his teeth, the grind of enamel audible. She shoots him a quick look, but his entire focus is turned toward the sights trained on Alex.

“You need to let us go.”

“We’re working toward the same goal, Alex,” Coralee says. 

“That may be so, but you lied to us once already. How are we supposed to trust anything you say?”

Alex takes a step forward, to push her way past Coralee. As one, the guards flick the safeties off their guns.

“I’m terribly sorry about this,” Coralee says.

“Move,” one of the men says, voice low.

“No,” Alex says. “You can’t do this.”

“Move,” the other man says. “Or I shoot.”

A bright light flashes behind Alex.

Coralee’s eyes go wide.

The armed men fumble with their rifles. 

The men and women crowded around the cavern scream in terror. Like mice, they scatter, disappearing further into the cave.

Alex turns. The Guardian stands behind her, breathing heavily, hunched under the great weight of leathery wings. His eyes glow a fierce blue behind a curtain of silver hair.

The Guardian throws his head back and roars, the sound echoing throughout the chamber. He smiles a predators smile, his mouth full of sharp teeth.

Without warning, the Guardian scoops Alex up in one arm. He shoulders the guards out of the way. One falls into Coralee, knocking her down. The other fires his weapon in surprise, the _bang_ of the gunshot so loud it blocks out all sound, everything but a tinny whine, until it all comes crashing back.

By that time, the Guardian has cleared the way. Alex holds tight to him as he takes her back up the gradual slope at a run.

The guard at the gate readies his weapon in shaking hands. The Guardian barks out something like a laugh before ripping the weapon out of the man’s hands. The metal crumples under the Guardian’s hand. He throws it away, now a useless hunk of steel.

As soon as the Guardian steps out into the cool New Mexico night, he hefts Alex in his arms. On reflex, Alex wraps her arms around his neck. She screams and buries her face in the cool marble of his skin as he launches them both into the air.

Alex chances only a quick peek, before squeezing her eyes shut against the twist of vertigo.

They’re flying.

 _Flying_. In the air. With nothing but the Guardian’s strong arms to keep her from tumbling back to the Earth.

The wind bites, cold and sharp, through each layer of her clothing. It howls in her ears, deafening. Alex curls into the Guardian, shielding herself from as much of it as she can.

The Guardian’s chest vibrates, but if he speaks—can he speak?—Alex cannot hear it.

She doesn’t know how long they fly, lost in the thrill of fear and adrenaline. She only knows when it’s over, when, with a last burst from powerful wings, they finally touch down on the ground.

“Holy shit,” Alex says.

The Guardian sets her down on her feet and retreats back several steps. 

He shakes his head and growls.

“Strand?” Alex asks. “We’re safe, now. You can change back.”

The Guardian’s clawed hands flex. He rolls his shoulders with another growl, as if he can shake away the hulking wings folded at his back.

“Strand?” Alex takes a step toward the Guardian.

The Guardian bares his teeth. 

A warning.

Alex shakes her head. She moves closer. She reaches out a hand and touches first his cheek, trailing the pads of her fingers over the raised markings on his skin. She touches the roots of his starlight hair and cards her fingers through it. “Hey. Come back to me, okay?”

The Guardian breathes heavily, trembling beneath her touch.

“Come back to me, Richard,” she says. 

Before she can stop herself, she presses her lips to his.

The Guardian shudders, but he doesn’t push her away. He closes gleaming blue eyes and makes an animal sound—a keening, desperate whine.

Alex closes her eyes as his gargoyle skin glows bright. She holds on as his incisors shrink, doesn’t even think to break away as his form shifts beneath her hands, his bone structure remaking itself.

When the light fades, it’s Strand who sighs into the kiss. He tangles his hands in her hair and breathes deeply, drinking her in.

When they part, Strand’s hair stands up at wild angles, not unlike when he first wakes. 

“Welcome back,” Alex says. She hasn’t let go of his arms. She squeezes his biceps, reassuring them both he’s back in his own skin.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what? You’re the one who got us out of there.”

“You pulled me back.” He cups her cheek and presses his forehead to hers, strands of his hair caught between them. “I couldn’t—not until you said my name.”

“Your name?”

Strand makes a sound of assent and closes his eyes. Alex uses her fingernails to lightly scratch at the short hairs at the nape of his neck. She massages the muscle there and smiles when he lets out a shuddering breath.

“Richard?”

He shivers. “Hm?”

They stand in darkness, surrounded by miles of desert. Behind Strand shine two bright lights. Headlights.

“I hate to spoil the moment, but there’s someone heading this way.”


	14. Chapter 14

Thomas Warren, CEO of Daeva Corp, smiles as he greets them, extending his hand first to Alex and then to Strand.

“Richard,” he says, taking a seat behind a large, modern desk, all dark gunmetal steel and glass. He motions for Alex and Strand to take the seats across from him. “You’re looking well.”

Strand frowns. “Do I know you?”

“Ah.” Warren smiles, wide and bright, like an actor straight out of a toothpaste commercial. “Perhaps not. But I know you.”

“How?”

Impossibly, Warren’s smile grows wider. “Now, now, Richard. I expected you to put two and two together. Your father would be disappointed.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

Warren nods. He waits for Strand to continue.

“You’re part of the organization Coralee mentioned, the one she ran from when she disappeared.”

Warren nods again.

Strand’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Presumably, you are the leader?”

“That’s right.”

“Why are we here?” Alex asks. “Not that I’m not grateful you had someone find us all the way out in the desert, or the First Class tickets back to Seattle, but why did you go through all this trouble to meet with us?”

Strand frowns. “To coerce us to into meeting with him, you mean.”

Warren folds his hands on the desk in front of him. He pauses and tilts his head for effect. “I believe it’s time we had a chat.”

“A chat?” Strand asks.

“Just a simple chat. Nothing more.”

“Okay,” Alex says. “If you want to talk, let’s talk.” 

Warren’s keen green eyes move from Alex to Strand. “How much has Coralee told you about me?”

“Nothing,” Alex says. “Only that she and a few others left your organization over a difference of opinion.”

“Ah.” Warren smiles. “You could say that.”

“What was the difference of opinion?”

Warren pauses. “My organization is very old. Founded in conjunction with the Order of the Cenophaes. You’ve heard of them, of course.”

Alex crosses her arms in front of her to keep her hands, so used to holding her recorder, occupied. Per their agreement, both her and Strand gave up all recording devices when they entered the Daeva Corp building, including their cell phones. “They want to return Tiamat to power.”

“They do. Using the power of Tiamat’s demons; the ones she created to revenge her fallen husband.”

“And?” Strand asks, frowning. “What of your organization?”

“My organization reveres Tiamat in a different way.”

“How?” Alex asks.

“When Marduk put a stop to Tiamat’s reign of terror,” Warren says, “he used her body to create the heavens and the earth. Everything we have, everything we take for granted—blue skies, vast oceans, mountains, lakes, jungles, etcetera—was born of Tiamat. And we were tasked with protecting it.”

Warren looks between Alex and Strand, still smiling. “My entire life, I devoted everything I am to that cause. I’ve spent millions in research and development, making advances in clean energy solutions, to end our reliance on fossil fuels. I have donated to countless charities in order to help the desperate, the needy, the broken. I’ve spent decades of my life searching out the Horn of Tiamat, in order to stop the Cenophaes. And in all of these years, do you know what conclusion I’ve come to?”

“No,” Alex says. “What?”

“Humanity does not deserve to be saved.”

Alex blinks in surprise. Beside her, Strand shifts in his seat.

“Is this some kind of warning?” Strand asks. 

“No, no, no,” Warren says. “What would be the point? Neither of you would listen.”

“Then, why?” Alex asks, shaking her head. “Why tell us any of this?”

“I’m not a total monster. Out of respect for Richard’s father, of course.”

Strand’s eyes narrow. “What do you know of my father?”

Warren’s smile falters, if only for a brief moment. “He worked for us. We recruited him, promising him the funds the University couldn’t provide. He was obsessed with the Horn of Tiamat, even before we approached him, so it didn’t take much to convince him to join our noble cause. I’m sure Coralee has already told you, but we also encouraged him to marry your mother, to continue her bloodline with a man on the inside, so to speak.”

Strand releases a breath and his fists clench, but he remains silent, eyes focused on Warren.

“It was all before I took over as the head of our organization, of course—I’m not _that_ old—but I can say, with all honesty, how sorry I am you had to find out the circumstances of your birth this way. And everything involved with your marriage to Coralee. Life _really_ has not been kind to you, has it?”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” Strand asks.

“No,” Warren says, mouth twisted in amusement, “I suppose not.”

“That’s it?” Alex asks. “You can’t tell us anything else? Anything at all?”

“Only that we believe Howard was close to discovering the Horn of Tiamat when he was murdered. But if that’s the case, the location died with him. The only object left on his body was an old journal, filled with the private ramblings of a man driven by desperation and obsession.”

“Where is it?” Strand asks.

Warren tilts his head, playing coy. “The journal?”

He doesn’t wait for Strand to answer. He presses a button on his phone and leans to speak into the microphone. “Bring it in, please.”

The door to Warren’s office opens and Warren’s assistant enters, carrying a leather bound book in perfectly manicured fingers. She presents it to Strand, who wavers for just a moment before taking it.

“Consider it a gift,” Warren says, as soon as his assistant has departed and the door has closed behind her.

Strand stares hard at the journal in his hands. His fingers trace the worn edges.

Alex places her hand on his arm and squeezes. 

Strand looks up, first at Alex and then at Warren. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Your father would have wanted you to have it. And, to be quite honest, it’s the least I can offer you in these final days.”

“You really have given up, haven’t you?” Alex asks.

Warren gives Alex his full toothpaste commercial smile. “I consider the end of the world to be a blessing, really.”

Warren stands. He rounds his desk and motions toward the door, signalling the end of their meeting. 

Alex stands. She shakes Warren’s hand, but the cool touch of his hand might as well be like touching something long dead and rotted away. 

Warren shakes Strand’s hand and follows them to the door to show them out. “My assistant will meet you in the lobby with your belongings. And Richard?”

Strand looks at Warren. “Yes?”

“Your father left you the house, didn’t he? Have you visited it at all during your stay in Seattle?”

“No.”

“We searched it, after he died. Nothing but dust. I’d urge you to sell it, but—” Warren laughs, the edges of it painted in shades of sinister delight. “I imagine the market is bound to turn for the worse.”

Alex and Strand trade glances. Strand places his hand protectively at the small of Alex’s back as they walk, neither wasting any time getting to the elevator. 

In the lobby, Warren’s assistant meets them, just as he promised. She returns their cellphones and Alex’s recorder. Without more than a cursory thanks, Alex shoves the device into her bag and urges Strand out of the Daeva Corp building.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hi! I'm back! 
> 
> For those of you who don't follow me on tumblr, I took a break to edit this monster. You might notice the chapter count has decreased as I rearranged some key plot points. Unfortunately, those chapters also contained the one with smut, but I hope I can make it up to you with the UST in this chapter. :D
> 
> You could _probably_ finish reading the rest of this fic without going back and re-reading, but _I_ would personally recommend it. I'm particularly proud of the changes I made.
> 
> Chapter should be updating _much_ sooner now that I'm finished editing. I'm excited to bring the rest of this story to you all and I desperately hope you are enjoying it as much as I am. 
> 
> Okay, enough rambling. Happy reading!

Alex sits down on the bed with a heavy sigh. “I never thought I‘d get tired of staying in hotel rooms, but, well, here we are.” 

Strand sits beside her, his father‘s journal clutched in his hands. His hand traces the faint lettering of the word JOURNAL on the front, worn almost smooth with age.

Alex places her hand on top of his, her touch silencing the voices whispering at the edge of his hearing. She caresses the lines of his fingers, content to sit with him until he can gather his thoughts. So different from when they first met. Different, even, from just weeks ago.

Finally, he turns his hand over. Slowly, hesitantly, he laces his fingers through hers. He gives her a faint smile. 

She kissed him. Back in the desert of New Mexico. 

Has it really only been less than a day? Since they were kidnapped by his former wife and threatened at gunpoint? Since Strand turned into the beast from his nightmares—the Guardian—and flew them both to safety? 

She kissed him. She pulled him back when all there was was darkness. When all he was, when every fiber of his being, was the urge to tear the world apart as long as it meant keeping Alex safe.

Her lips were soft and warm. Always so warm, his Alex. She held onto him when she had every right to run. She embraced him, even having seen the monster beneath his skin.

She should have run.

She should have left him there, trapped in a body not his own.

If he’s really meant to keep her from harm, it would be better for him to do so from afar. Not sitting beside her in a hotel room, her small hand held in his.

“You kissed me,” he says, staring at the clasp of their hands.

“I did,” Alex says.

He looks up. Her green eyes glitter.

He brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, giving her time to push him away. She closes her eyes and holds his palm to her cheek as he leans in and kisses the corner of her mouth, pulled upward in a smile.

Before he can back away, Alex slants her lips over his.

His hand tangles in her hair. The cast presses into his palm when he places his other hand on her shoulder to steady her.

The cast—

“Wait,” Strand says.

Alex frowns. “What is it?”

Strand rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. How could he have not noticed? Were they really so caught up in events he wouldn’t have felt the give in his cast where there previously was none?

“It’s cracked,” Alex says. She takes his arm and runs her fingers along the fissure. “How did this happen?”

“The Guardian,” Strand says. 

His clothing was in tatters after his transformation. He had only enough time to change into the clothing provided to him before Warren’s driver whisked them to the airport.

“We should get you to the hospital. Or a clinic.”

“No,” Strand says. He takes back his arm and tests the range of motion. No pain.

“No?” Alex asks. “You should really get that fixed. Your arm won’t heal—”

Strand shakes his head. “I meant, it doesn’t hurt. I don’t think it’s broken. Not anymore.”

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know.” He pulls at the hard shell of the cast. It gives just enough for him to free himself.

“Here,” Alex says. “Let me help.”

She removes the padding, revealing the pale, unbroken skin of his arm.

“I don’t understand. You think your bone healed itself when you changed into the Guardian?”

Strand frowns, staring at his arm. “Or when I changed back.”

“Are you sure it’s not still broken?”

Strand looks up, letting a smile curl at the corner his lips.

Alex laughs. “Right. So that’s what it feels like to sit on the skeptic side of the fence. Not sure I like it when you aren’t right there with me.”

Strand’s face heats up. “I—“

Alex kisses him. “You’re cute when you’re flustered. Did you know that?”

The heat travels all the way up to his ears, into his hairline. “No one has had occasion, I’m afraid.”

“It’s true.” She holds up two fingers and smiles. “Promise.”

“In that case, how can I not trust you?”

Alex bites her lip, the look in her eyes enough to make him shiver. She shakes her head, dispelling whatever thoughts run through it. “I want to kiss you again, but I’m afraid if I do, I won't stop. And after everything that’s happened, I _really_ need a shower.”

His own hair sports an unattractive a sheen of grease. His skin still carries some of the dust of the New Mexico desert. And his arm, the one encased in a cast for the last few weeks, desperately needs a wash. As much as he’d like to spend the next few hours exploring Alex’s mouth with his tongue and teeth, he would rather do so clean. “I know how you feel. Go shower.”

 

Strand flushes when Alex steps out of the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel, wearing nothing but the white, terry cloth robe provided by the hotel. 

Draped over damp skin, backlit from the light in the bathroom, he can trace the clear outline of her body.

He swallows around the want flooding his system. He’s already tasted her mouth. What would the rest of her taste like? As sweet as the strawberry shampoo she uses to wash her hair? Or electric, like a shock to his senses, the buzz of static enough to make his fingers tremble and his lips numb?

“Your turn,” Alex says.

Strand takes a breath and forces his eyes upward, toward the ceiling, before he can embarrass himself. “Thank you. I—It occured to me neither of us has anything to wear.”

”I discovered that the hard way.” Alex looks down at herself. “I hope you don’t mind. I just couldn’t face the thought of climbing back into my clothes.”

He does mind. He minds very much.

The robe would look much better on the floor, Alex standing bare before him.

Strand shakes his head. “No. I don’t mind.”

“Thanks. I’m going to text Nic and see if he can bring us something clean. What sizes should I tell him?”

Strand rattles off sizes.

“Are jeans and a T-shirt okay? I know you they aren’t your usual go-to.”

“If possible, I’d prefer something with long sleeves.”

“Sure,” Alex says. “Now go take a shower. Hopefully Nic will be here by the time you get out.”

That being said, Strand takes his time in the bathroom. He peels himself out of his shirt and slacks, grimacing at the particles of desert sand still sticking to his skin. He tosses everything onto the pile of Alex’s clothing on the floor.

He starts the spray of the shower and watches his reflection in the mirror while the water heats.

The creature stares at him with glowing blue eyes. Strand turns his head and the Guardian follows suit. Strand lifts a hand and the Guardian does, as well. Strand’s fingers reach out, pressing against the glass of the mirror. The Guardian’s clawed hands touch his.

Strand rears back, startled. He reaches out and places his palm against the glass. The Guardian’s hand dwarfs his human hand, but it meets Strand’s hand palm to palm.

“Are we the same?” Strand asks, quiet, aware Alex is in the next room. “Or are you separate from me? Where do I end and you begin?”

The Guardian doesn’t answer. It’s lips, however, pull up in a grin.

Strand forces himself to study the Guardian’s features—perhaps for the first time in his life—until the mirror fogs up with steam. Only then does he step into the shower.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s St. Patrick’s day, so have some smut. ;)
> 
> Oh, and I guess some feelings.

Alex Reagan, intrepid reporter, force to be reckoned with, puts her hands on her hips. Her mouth turns down in a concerned frown. “Are you sure you‘ll be alright on your own?”

“I’ll manage,” Strand says. “Go ahead. Nic is waiting.”

“But are you _sure_? You should really eat something.”

Strand smiles. Unable to resist, he places his hands on her arms, his thumbs sweeping over the soft cotton of her sweater. “I’ll be fine.”

Alex melts a little under his touch. “Okay. But I’m going to bring something back for you, alright? Your usual?”

Their last real meal was the TV dinner provided to them back in the cave in New Mexico. Strand’s stomach twists with hunger, but the exhaustion settled into his bones wins out. He squeezes her arms once before letting her go. “Yes, that’s fine.”

Alex gives him another long, considering look. “Okay, well, I’m going to go. Call me if anything happens.”

“I will.”

Under Alex’s stare, he relents. “I promise.”

Alex smiles. She stands up on her tip-toes and presses a kiss just underneath his jaw. “See you later, Richard.”

Strand closes his eyes and tries to suppress the shiver at her use of his name.

By the time he opens his eyes, the door swings shut, leaving him alone in the hotel room.

Strand sits heavily upon the bed. He takes his cell phone from the bedside table where it was left to charge and lays back on the mattress, his long legs hanging over the side, his feet flat on the floor. He sets his phone on top of his chest and lets his eyes trace shapes out of the popcorn on the ceiling.

Call Dr. Maloney. Study his father’s journal. Save the world.

The words swirl in his head alongside the whispers that have grown louder in Alex’s absence.

 _Guardian_.

 _Guardian_.

 _Soon_.

“Soon,” Strand grumbles. Hasn’t he already become the Guardian? Did he not already free the beast from the chains binding it? “Is that all you can say?”

 _Soon_.

Strand groans and turns on his side, bringing his knees into his chest, phone clutched in his hand. Even the silvery scars from the mirror incident have faded away.

What more proof could he need? He _is_ Guardian. The Guardian is _him_.

Unless he’s truly succumbed to his delusions. Delusions about a life where his wife wasn’t murdered, but where she instead left him to become the leader of an underground operation for an unnamed organization. Where his Black Tapes weren’t a desperate effort on his part to separate reality with his nightmares, but were instead evidence he wasn’t sick, wasn’t hallucinating demons since his childhood. Where Alex Reagan stepped into his life with her smile and her recorder and her _insistence_ and stayed not because of the story, but for _him_. Where he _is_ the creature from his dreams, but the creature was never meant to destroy, never meant to rip him open from the inside out, but to rescue those he loves from something even worse. 

A world where he can keep Alex safe.

 _Guardian_.

“Yes. Fine.” He holds the phone above his head and swipes to unlock it. He scrolls through his contacts for Dr. Maloney. He puts the phone on speaker and places it on the comforter beside his head.

All in.

The call connects and the receptionist chirps out a greeting.

“Hello. This is Dr. Richard Strand, calling for Dr. Maloney. Would it be possible to speak with him? Regarding my medication. It’s rather important.”

“Oh! Yes. He shouldn’t be with any patients right now. Let me see if I can get him for you.”

Hold music plays, the sound tinny through his phone’s speaker.

He waits.

The hold music cuts off. “He’ll call you right back, Dr. Strand.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

He lets the receptionist end the call, opting instead to close his eyes. He dozes until the phone buzzes in his ear. “Hello.”

“Dr. Strand? How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He lets out a breath, reconsidering. “Tired.”

“Let’s see.” Dr. Maloney types for a moment. “I increased your medication the last time I saw you. Do you think the increase is causing you to be tired?”

“No. Maybe. I lost it.”

A beat of silence. “Lost it? As in?”

Strand gives a quick breath of laughter. “My medication. I lost it.”

“You lost your medication?”

“I was careless with my luggage. My laptop, my students’ papers, my clothing, my medication. All of it, gone.” It’s as close to the truth as he can get without telling his psychiatrist his long-assumed dead wife has his duffel bag held hostage in a cave somewhere in New Mexico.

Strand covers his mouth to keep himself from laughing aloud. When did his life become this _ridiculous_?

“I can write you a new prescription. Where are you? Chicago?”

“Seattle.”

“The pharmacy will need to call in an override to your insurance provider.”

“I understand.”

“You aren’t feeling suicidal? Homicidal?”

“No.”

Dr. Maloney types at his computer. “Alright, Dr. Strand. Call me if that changes.”

“I will, thank you. Goodbye.”

He ends the call with a tap of his finger. The event should be momentous. But with a simple, easy movement he ends the final call to his psychiatrist he’ll ever make.

All in.

No turning back.

Next, his father’s journal.

Across the room. He can make it across the room. He can.

Strand closes his eyes.

 

He comes awake all at once with the slide of the keycard in the door. The door swings open slowly and shuts with the same amount of care.

“Alex?” he asks, voice rough.

“It’s me. Sorry I woke you.”

He groans and throws his arm over his eyes, crushing his glasses into his face. “‘s fine. Shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

A plastic shopping bag rustles as Alex drops it to the floor, followed by the thump-thump of her boots as she wrestles out of them. “I brought you some food. I also stopped by the store and my apartment and picked up what I could.”

Strand sits up with a frown.

“I know, we agreed to stay out of sight, but I had Nic with me. And I think—I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think if I needed you, if I called for you, you would have come. It happened that way at Bayshore gardens.”

In the gardens, it happened with an ache in his bones and a pressure in his chest. Her calls for help rang inside his head, rather than through his ears. His hands shook and his eyes watered as he was enveloped in a bright white light. And after that all there was was a ravenous hunger and the overwhelming need to destroy anyone, anything, who dared to threaten Alex.

“Even so, I’d rather not test that hypothesis.”

“Right. I’m not eager to run into trouble, either.” She rifles through the plastic bag to pull out a styrofoam container. “Here.”

She steps into his space to hand off the container. Strand takes it and places it beside him. He tugs her closer, until she’s standing between his knees. He wraps his arms around her and hugs her to him.

Alex strokes his hair. “Is it the voices?”

While the voices have vanished at her touch, they are not quite the reason he pulled her into an embrace. 

It’s been a long time since he’s forged this type of connection with another person. Decades. He finds himself starved for it, craving it even when she’s near. And even though he wants her, even when the sight of her turns his mouth dry with desire, he wants this most of all.

“No,” he says into her sweater. 

Alex pulls back, enough to see his face. She pushes his hair back from his forehead, no doubt mussed from sleep. She leans forward and slants her lips over his.

Strand lets her set the pace, moving his lips against hers, letting her tongue slip into his mouth. He makes a needy sound which would have embarrassed him if it were anyone but Alex.

Alex smiles into the kiss. “More?”

“Please,” he says, just on the verge of breathless.

Alex steps away, taking her warmth with her. She lifts the styrofoam container and places it on the dresser. She turns back to him and, with a smile, crosses her hands in front of her, her fingers playing at the hem of her sweater.

She pulls it up and away, tossing it to the floor. Her T-shirt goes next, followed by her jeans, leaving her standing in a lacy white bra and a pair of cotton panties.

Strand removes his own shirt. He stands to unbuckle his belt, to pop the button on his jeans. He lets them pool at his feet and kicks them away.

Alex comes to him, pulling him down for another kiss. She nibbles at his bottom lip and places kisses along his jaw.

Strand’s hands settle on her hips, her bare skin not warm, but heated. He wraps his arms around her and lifts until her legs wrap around his waist. He turns and deposits her gently onto the bed, Alex’s lips still exploring his skin.

He settles over her, his cock hard and straining against his boxer briefs. He resists the urge to grind against her, to relieve some of the pressure. He palms her breasts, instead, teasing her through the lace.

Alex gives a quiet, breathy moan and arches up into his touch. 

Strand leans down to mouth the swill of her breasts. His tongue darts out to play with her nipples and Alex cards her fingers through his hair, to pull him closer.

Strand kisses the exposed skin between her breasts. He nips and sucks at her collar bone, followed by the column of her throat.

Alex moans and reaches between them, cupping him through the fabric of his underwear.

Strand hisses through his teeth and bucks into her hand.

She traces the length of him with the pads of her fingers, her touch light, gloriously unsatisfying, until she finds the elastic of his underwear. She slides her hand past the barrier to take him in her hand.

“Wait,” Strand says, holding himself still. “Please.”

Alex tries to move her hand away, but Strand places his own hand over hers. He drops his forehead to press into her shoulder. “You’re sure? Because I—I don’t want this to be something you regret.”

“I want this.” Alex places a kiss on his temple. “I want _you_ , Richard.”

Emphasizing her point, she squeezes him in her hand. She strokes him, thumbing the head of his cock, spreading the pre-cum beaded there. 

Strand rocks into her touch while his teeth scrape along the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He follows the hurt with open-mouthed kisses.

Alex lets go of him, only to tug at his boxer briefs. “Off.”

Strand breathes out, half-laugh, half-desperate desire. He sits up to rid himself of his underwear. 

Alex shimmies out of her panties and with a quick flick of her fingers behind her, unclasps her bra. She shrugs out of it, tossing it onto the floor with the rest of their clothing and lies back. She takes his hand to pull him back over her, where her hands trace the outline of his ribs, the touch light enough to send shivers down his spine. She runs her hands up and around to his back, landing on his shoulder blades.

Strand bends to capture a nipple in his mouth, nipping and sucking until Alex squirms underneath him. Her nails dig into his back and Strand hisses.

“That hurt?” Alex whispers.

“No.” Strand makes low sound and drops his forehead to rest on her collarbone. “No. I’m fine.” 

More than fine. 

She buries her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. She gives it a light tug. “Hey. Come here.”

Strand lets her guide him into a kiss. He closes his eyes and breathes her in. Her teeth catch on his bottom lip and Strand laughs.

“Touch me,” Alex says. Her hand takes his and leads him down to the damp curls of her sex. 

He slides a finger between her folds, groaning when he finds her hot and wet. Her circles her clit, making her cry out.

He captures her mouth with his and teases her, alternating between ghosting his finger over the most sensitive part of her, making her buck into his touch, begging for more, and giving her just what she wants, reveling in the moans she makes into his mouth.

The kiss turns sloppy, Alex’s breathy moans turning into keens of need.

Strand brings her as close to the edge as he can and slows, keeping her on the cusp of climax until she curses and digs her fingers into his back.

She cries out as she comes. “Shit, shit, shit. Oh my God.”

Strand smiles and kisses the sensitive skin behind her ear. “Good?”

“Fuck, yes.”

His cock is heavy against her leg, hard and aching for attention. Alex takes him in hand and strokes him. 

He groans. “I’m not going to last if you keep doing that.”

“That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

He swallows a moan and drops his head, focused solely on her touch. “Alex.”

“Here,” Alex says. She shifts underneath him, urging him to turn on his back. She straddles him and guides him to her entrance. She holds him there and gives him a wicked smile.

He reaches up to cup her cheek, caressing her face until his fingers tangle in her hair. “Please. I need—”

Alex sinks onto him, slowly, giving herself time to adjust to the size of him, until he’s seated fully inside her.

He holds himself still, unwilling to move until Alex rolls her hips. Only then does he fuck up into her, matching the rhythm she sets as she rides him. His hands fall to her waist and Alex’s cover his as she arches back and moans. “Richard.”

He groans as his orgasm tears through him. He collapses, breathless, into the mattress. He slips out of her as Alex rolls to lay next to him.

Alex laughs. “Holy shit.”

“Yes.”

“That was amazing.”

Strand smiles. “Yes.”

“I need to go wash up,” she says. She curls around him, her arm draped over his chest.

He takes her hand and kisses it. “Do you?”

She groans and buries her face into his shoulder. “I do. But not just now. I just—I want to enjoy the afterglow.”

He turns and scoops her to him, their skin damp with sweat. He breathes in the smell of her—sex, sweat, and strawberry shampoo.

He loves her.

He’s loved her since the beginning. Since she first stepped into his office, all pluck and determination. Perhaps before then, before the eleven messages she left for him at the Institute. Perhaps the Guardian in him has always been drawn to her, before Strand even knew she existed.

Alex sighs. “I love you.”

He tangles his hand in the hair at the nape of her neck. He urges her to look at him. A pretty flush stains her cheeks. 

He kisses her until she’s breathless.

“I love you, Alex.” He places open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. “I love you.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH, PLOT!

Early risers mill about the hotel dining room. Some shuffle in with zombie-like expressions, clearly unused to waking so early, only tempted out of bed with the promise of breakfast. Mothers and fathers drag behind children, still wiping sleep from their eyes. Other, more bright-eyed patrons, sip at coffee, already fully dressed and ready for the day.

Strand is not one of those bright-eyed patrons. He stares bleerily at the journal in front of him, his tea rapidly cooling beside his hand, only a few cursory bites taken from his eggs and toast.

Alex reaches out and brushes her hand against his, trailing her fingertips along his knuckles. Her heart skips a beat when he glances up, a shy smile on his face.

“Anything good?” she asks, nodding to indicate his father’s journal.

“Thomas Warren was right,” he says. 

Alex’s brows go up.

Strand laughs. “I meant, in this one instance. Most of my father’s writing appears to be nothing of consequence. But then, there is this.” 

He slides the journal over to her. Alex takes it and turns it around while he takes a sip from his tea.

A letter, near the end of the journal. Addressed to Strand.

Alex looks up. “Are you sure you want me to read this?”

Strand nods.

_Richard,  
My dear boy. _

_No doubt you’ll shrug away the endearment, as well as your unfortunate association to me. For this, I have only the deepest regrets._

_If you’re reading this letter, you already know your life has never been your own—the circumstances of your conception manufactured, your life from childhood under constant surveillance, your fate decided from the start._

_This, I know, is my own fault entirely. While it may bring no consolation whatsoever, it is a heavy weight I’ve had to bare all these years. I alone shoulder the burden of what I did to you, your mother, and to your dearest sister. You were forced to deal with far more than your share of misery, disappointment, and dishonesty.  
It is not my place to ask forgiveness. Instead, perhaps, I can ask for your understanding._

_Do you remember, my dear son, the old house in Seattle, WA? How you and your sister managed to get in trouble every visit, bored to tears, even with three stories of house to play in? I cannot get the image out of my head of you and Cheryll fast asleep amongst the coats in my closet. Your mother and I searched and searched for you children, before we finally found you, cuddled around one another._

_I’m afraid, I was perhaps more harsh with you than the situation called for. I can only say now how worried I was for you. You had begun to see Tiamat’s demons just one year prior, and, I admit, I was frightened. What if you had experienced your Change? What if the Order of the Cenophaes got to you? Perhaps, for the first time, I realized what being the Guardian would mean for you. And just how spectacularly I had failed at being your parent._

_I love you, my child._

_I have never said as much to you, but I am proud of you, as well._

_With you as Guardian, I know the world is in good hands._

_Your father,  
Howard Strand_

“That’s...wow,” Alex says.

“It’s quite a lot to take in. Except—“ he taps the page with his finger. “This never happened.”

Alex frowns. “What never happened?”

“The house. It’s the same house Warren mentioned. The one my father left to me after his death.”

“Right. I remember him asking if you’ve visited it at all since you’ve been in Seattle.”

Strand looks up, eyes intense. “And I have not. In fact, I’ve never once set foot on the property.”

“Never?”

Strand shakes his head. 

“He lied?”

“Perhaps, not entirely. It’s...possible he felt regret. But the anecdote—my sister and I never hid in my father’s closet. Cheryll—no. I was afraid of the dark. I refused to sleep without a nightlight for years after I started to see the Tall Men.”

Alex takes his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together across the table. The Strand of just a few weeks ago would never have been able to admit something like that. Perhaps not even to himself. 

Strand gives her a small, tired smile.

“So, what does this mean?” Alex asks. “Why write about something that never happened? I’m sure there were other, I don’t know, moments, like this one, he could have referenced instead.”

“Precisely. Either my father was going senile or he’s giving us a clue.”

“He wants us to go to the house? Thomas Warren already searched it. There’s nothing there. Unless...”

Strand’s smile pulls up on one side. “Unless Thomas Warren hasn’t completely given up hope for humanity.”

Alex bites her bottom lip. It makes sense. Sort of. “He gave you the journal. And he asked about the house. He was, what, trying to throw us off with that whole ‘humanity doesn’t deserve to be saved’ shtick?”

“To protect himself, perhaps. My father was killed by the Order of the Cenophaes for what he knew about the Horn of Tiamat. If Warren had the same information, it would put him in the line of fire.”

“Right.” Alex sweeps up some of the crumbs from her bagel with a crumpled napkin and tosses it onto her plate. “So, we have a starting point. Do you have the address? We should probably get going.”

Strand closes the journal. He clears his own space at the table and follows her to the bin to throw away their trash. “May I make one request? I need to stop at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription.”

Alex whirls around, nearly tripping over her own feet, brows furrowed. “I thought—“

Strand pushes at the corner of his glasses. “I don’t. But while I can confirm my arm is no longer broken, I can say nothing about the drugs in my system. I’ve been taking medication since I was a child, Alex. I’m not about to risk going into withdrawal with so much at stake.”

She resists the urge to bite at her lip again. “Sorry. That makes sense. I just thought—“

“I know.” Strand takes her hand. His blue eyes gleam as his lips pull up in a wry smile. “As much as I hate to say it. No more apophenia.” 

He tilts his head, smile pulling wider. “At least, not in this case.”

Alex pulls him down for a kiss.


	18. Chapter 18

Strand’s house, the house he’d inherited from his father, stands at three stories. An old Victorian, a large porch wraps around the front of the building, continuing down one side. The paint, which might have been yellow once upon a time, peels away from the facade. A piece of rotting plywood covers one of the windows. Grass grows long, but not overwhelmingly so, perhaps having been cut somewhat recently.

“I admit,” Strand says, seeing her expression, “I didn’t much care for the upkeep. Beyond having the yard cut every so often, the house should be just as my father left it.”

Alex follows him up the driveway to the front steps. The wood creeks a warning under their weight. “Why keep it? If you disliked your father so much, why bother with the house, at all?”

“Selling it felt like I was giving him more consideration than he was due. It felt...right. To leave it to rot.”

“Because your relationship with him was rotten?”

Strand glances at her as he fiddles with the key in the lock.

Alex stares back, doing her best to look as non-judgemental as possible.

The key finally turns and the door opens with a squeal, the hinges rusted over. “Yes.”

Alex rummages in her bag for the two Dollar Tree flashlights they bought on the way over. She hands one to Strand. He flicks it on and it flutters into life, the weak shine cutting through the darkness just on the other side of the threshold. 

Alex smiles to hide some of her unease. The last time she encountered a darkness like this, it was inside the greenhouse, when she came face to shadowed face with a demon. “Guardians first.”

The corner of Strand’s mouth twitches upward. He holds out his hand for her to take. “It’s just an old house. But on the off chance something lies in wait, I won’t allow anything to hurt you.”

Alex grips his hand and follows him inside. “I know that. Doesn’t make this place any less eerie.”

An inch of dust covers every surface. The glare of Alex’s flashlight ghosts over furniture draped with old sheets. Alex glances behind her, at the trail of their dust-lined footsteps.

“All that’s missing is a ghost or two,” Alex says. 

“A ghost?”

Alex shrugs. “Or a butler named Old Man Jenkins, dressed as a ghost. Trying to steal the one million dollar prize.”

Strand laughs. “We seem to be lacking our pesky dog. I recall him being a character integral to the plot.”

Alex smiles. _Our. Our pesky dog._

“I’ve always wanted a dog.” She squeezes his hand. “Any chance you’ll ditch the tie and go for the ascot look? I think it’d be rather dashing.”

He gives her a look Alex interprets as _not on your life._

Alex smiles back and resists the urge to kiss him.

“What do you think?” she asks. “Should we start from the bottom up?”

“The bottom would be the basement.”

Alex blanches. “Nope. How about we do this floor first and leave the basement for last?”

“I thought that might be the case.”

The first floor consists of a living room, a family room, a study, a half-bathroom, a formal dining room, and a large kitchen with a small dining table and a door leading into the cellar. Alex’s flashlight cuts through the dust to catch on bookshelves stuffed with books, on faded paintings left hanging on the walls, and decades old appliances. All throughout the house, sunlight struggles to shine through windows clouded over after years of neglect, giving off an eerie glow.

“You really did leave it just like he left it. No one else offered to help clean it out, after his death?”

Strand shakes his head. “There was no one else.” 

“Not even your sister? Charlie? Surely they would have wanted something to remember him by.”

Strand frowns. “Charlie never knew her grandfather and Cheryl distanced herself from me after Coralee’s disappearance. I assume she would have contacted me if she wanted to keep some part of him.”

“But she didn’t.”

“No.”

“Couldn’t you give her a call? Things should be different now. Coralee is alive. She’s proof you had nothing to do with what happened twenty years ago.”

Strand looks away, using the sweep of his flashlight to avoid looking at her. “The strain in our relationship started long before then.”

“But why?”

Strand presses his lips into a thin line. “My illness. What I was led to believe was an illness, at the time. It was...the first experience we could never share.”

“So you were close before then?”

“Very.” He peers up the staircase leading to the second floor. He tests his weight on the first stair. It creaks, but holds his weight. “I’ll go up first. Stay here until I call you.”

“What? No.”

“These stairs are old. We can’t be sure of their structural integrity. I won’t have you falling through them.” 

He turns to continue up the stairs, but Alex catches hold of his sleeve.

His expression softens. “I won’t go far.”

“Fine. But if something so much as goes bump, I’m running up there, structural integrity be damned.” She takes a step back, freeing her fingers from the fabric of his shirt. “Be quick, okay?”

He gives her a quick smile before going up the stairs, until he rounds the landing and all that’s left is the heavy shuffle of his sneakers above her.

Alex traces her flashlight over bulky, misshapen sheets. They checked the entire floor. If someone—or something—were there, they would know.

Still, she chews at her bottom lip. Was there actually movement out of the corner of her eye? Or just her imagination?

A chill goes through her and the hair on her arms raise. “Strand?”

“I’m here.” More shuffling. Alex follows the sound to see his head peeking over the railing. “It’s safe to come up.”

Alex bolts up the stairs.

At the top, Strand gives her a knowing smile, his eyes glittering behind his glasses.

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex says. “So I’m actually a scaredy-cat. Laugh it up.”

“I would never,” Strand says, amusement hidden in the crook of his smile.

Strand opens a door into a bedroom. A dusty bed, still dressed in an old comforter, takes up the center of the room. A desk, complete with rotary phone, sits beneath the window. Strand closes the door. “Guest room, I think.”

The door directly across from the first opens into another bedroom, furnished much the same as the first, with the addition of a reading nook. Strand closes the door.

The next room is a bathroom. The shower curtain features a faded beach scene, complete with seagrass and sandpipers. Pictures of seashells hang on the wall. The toothbrush holder, soap dish, and trash bin match the shower curtain. Alex tries not to snicker. It looks just like her great aunt’s bathroom, down in Florida.

Who knew the mysterious Howard Strand would have tacky taste in bathroom decor?

Alex follows Strand further down the hall to the last door.

Another bedroom, this one much larger than the rest. Like Strand’s office at the Institute, the walls are lined with bookshelves. Unlike Strand’s office, these shelves are filled with books and other objects Alex can only describe as belonging in an old fashioned cabinet of curiosities. Vases, statuettes, masks, cracked pieces of masonry with carved runes. Even a taxidermied rhesus monkey with pigeon wings poorly stitched onto its back. 

Squeezed in between bookcases sits a scuffed mahogany desk covered in loose paper, open books, and a stack of letter-sized envelopes underneath a silver letter opener, all blanketed by dust. Pushed against the far wall, almost as an afterthought, is a small bed.

Strand frowns. “My father’s bedroom.”

“Do you think he would have kept the Horn here?”

Strand moves the flashlight back and forth over the space until he finds a door set into the wall. “This could be the closet he mentioned in his journal.”

He strides over to the door and places his hand upon the knob. He looks at Alex before turning the knob and slowly easing the door open on protesting hinges.

Shirts and slacks hang from hangers. Shoes line the bottom. Toward the back hang coats of varying degrees of warmth. Strand picks through them, checking pockets. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Let me see.”

Strand steps back, allowing Alex to approach. She takes her time, patting down each article of clothing like she’s a spy checking her informant for a wire. Finally, her hands catch on a squared edge in the lining of a heavy peacoat. “Here. There’s something in this one.”

Strand pulls the coat from the closet and holds up the flashlight for her to see. Alex traces the object with her fingers. The edges are soft—not hardcover, but possibly a book of some kind. “It’s sewn shut, but there is definitely something in here. A notebook or something.”

Alex picks up the letter opener from the desk. Before she can turn away, however, a photograph catches her eye. A pair of photographs, rather, in a hinged frame. A young boy and a young girl, both remarkably alike. She looks at Strand and recognizes pieces of the boy from the photograph. “Is this you?”

Strand peers over her shoulder. “Yes. And my sister, Cheryl.”

“Twins?”

“I’m the eldest. By eleven minutes.”

Alex smiles. “I bet you never let her live that down.”

Strand smiles at the photograph, his eyes fond. “Never.”

Twins. It makes sense now, what he said before. The first experience they could never share. What must it have been like, to have Strand’s Guardianship drive such a wedge between him and his sister? To the point she could no longer be sure of her brother, where she could believe him to be responsible for his wife’s disappearance?

“I’m so sorry,” Alex says. “I didn’t know.”

“I never told you.”

“Still. That must have been so hard. You shouldn’t have had to go through that.”

He shrugs. “It was, apparently, my destiny.”

“Destiny? I would never have pegged for you for someone who believed in destiny.”

He grimaces. “I do not. But I cannot deny my father...designed my birth for a purpose. A purpose I must fulfil if I do not want to see the world end.”

“In that case, let’s get this thing open.” 

It’s difficult to see in the light of Strand’s flashlight, but the seam of the lining at the bottom hem shows signs of having been torn and hastily sewn back together. She takes the letter opener and teases a hole in between two sloppy stitches and, with a little effort, slices through the fabric.

A manilla envelope drops to the floor.

Strand tosses the coat over the chair at the desk and bends to pick up the envelope. He picks at the metal pin holding it shut and pulls out a plain, yellowed folder.

Inside the folder are pages and pages of hand-scrawled notes. Strand’s eyes fly over each of the pages, his expression growing more and more grim. “Alex.”

“Strand?”

“The Horn of Tiamat isn’t a what, but a whom.”

“What? Who?”

He doesn’t answer, except to push the pages in her direction.

A family tree. Names Alex recognizes. Great-great grandparents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. And a name, circled at the bottom.

_Alex Reagan._

“It’s me.” The words come out as no more than a breath. “I’m the Horn of Tiamat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *PNWS BOOM*


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this finished just before I saw Infinity War. I was too raw from Events to do a full edit until just now, and I’m posting this when I should be in bed. I hope you enjoy this latest installment. Spoiler for this chapter: it’s a bit of a doozy.

Alex sits beside Strand on the porch, where they can read without the use of flashlights. Fanned out around them, weighted down with assortment of items taken from the house, are pages of Howard Strand’s writing.

Writing about the Horn of Tiamat.

Writing, more specifically, about her.

“So,” Alex says, “let me get this straight.”

Strand waits for her to continue, but Alex frowns, staring hard at the page in front of her.

“Let me get this straight,” she says again. “I’m supposed to be the Horn of Tiamat.”

Strand nods.

“And you’re supposed to be my Guardian.”

“Yes.”

Alex frowns harder. “And we’re, like, soulmates?”

Strand frowns to match hers. “Ordinarily, I would disagree. However—“

“However, according to your father, the last part of Tiamat, after her body was used to create the heavens and the earth, was her soul. Which she tore into two and spirited into human beings. Human beings we are somehow descendants of.”

“That is what he wrote.”

“And you believe him?”

Strand doesn’t speak. Instead, he looks at her, his eyes tracing the contours of her face. “I don’t know what to believe. Not anymore.”

Alex huffs out a laugh. “Me neither.”

“But,” Strand says. “I know this. I feel—“

His eyes shift down, but he forces himself to look at her. “I feel…complete. When you are with me. You chase away the voices, yes. You were able to call me back when all there was was darkness and chaos. But I—I think I’ve loved you since the beginning. Since you first breezed into my office, after I stupidly evaded each of those eleven calls.”

Alex smiles. “You kept running, but you always came back. I knew you would always come back, no matter what. I don’t know how, but I did.”

Strand leans in, crossing the short distance between them, mussing pages under his hand. He slants his lips over hers, the kiss soft, sweet. “I’m tired of running.”

Alex tangles her hand in his hair and kisses him back. “Then let’s go kick some demon ass.”

Strand laughs. Not his usual amused exhale, but the first honest, good laugh she’s ever got from him.

She stares at him, shocked. But then she grins, heart swelling at the sight of him, sitting beside her on his father’s porch at the end of the world. “I love you. I really do.”

He smiles, showing her a rare, shy flash of teeth.

“How sweet,” says an unfamiliar voice.

Alex whips her head around to see a man, dressed in a business suit, an earpiece in his ear.

Strand stands, putting himself in front of Alex. “Who are you?”

The man smiles and cocks his head. “Someone you would be wise not to piss off. I’m here to make an offer.”

“What kind of offer?” Alex asks. She grabs what pages she can by the handfuls and shoves them into her bag, all while watching the stranger approach, one agonizingly slow footstep at a time.

“One you would be wise to consider.” The man whispers something into his earpiece. His eyes shift from Strand’s face to his chest.

Strand follows his gaze and steps back in surprise. “Alex, run.”

“What? No!” Alex stands, abandoning the rest of the scrawled pages. She pushes past the barrier of his arm to stand beside him. Never mind he’s her Guardian. She won’t abandon him. “Not without you.”

Strand shakes his head, but the rest of him remains still. Five red laser points hover over his heart, all within centimeters of each other. All five steady, unwavering. Focused.

“There are snipers,” the man says. “They will shoot you down, Guardian, before you can Change. Leaving your little reporter all alone, without her protector.”

Strand tenses, growling low in his throat.

Alex pulls at his arm. He looks down and shakes his head, losing some of the blue glowing behind his eyes.

To the man, she says, “You’re offer. I take it it goes something like ‘you can either come peacefully or be taken by force?’”

The man claps his hands together in mock-delight. “Something like that. You’re both very smart individuals. I’m sure you can see the wisdom of leaving this house, together, unharmed, versus Alex being dragged away by my team while Dr. Strand bleeds out on the porch.”

A white, nondescript van screeches around the bend in the street, speeding fast enough to nearly tip it.

The five laser sights on Strand’s chest wink out, one by one.

“What?” The man presses his fingers to the earpiece. “What’s happening? Alpha unit, come in. Alpha unit, respond!”

The van skids to an abrupt stop in front of the house, leaving marks on the pavement and the smell of burned rubber in the air. The side door slides open.

Coralee Strand pops her head out from the inside, beckoning Alex and Strand inside. “Come on! We don’t have much time.”

Strand takes Alex’s arm and urges her to go before him. Alex hesitates, long enough to sling the strap of her bag over her head. They can’t lose Howard’s research. They can’t allow it to fall into the wrong hands.

The man grabs at them as they run, but he spins, hand held to his shoulder, with a pained shout. Blood spills over his fingers.

“Now!” Coralee shouts. “We’ve slowed them down, but we have to go now!”

As soon as they reach the street, Strand shoves Alex toward the van. Coralee catches her arms and wrenches her inside while Strand climbs in and slams the door shut behind him. The van jolts as the driver—the same man who picked them up from the airport, the man in the pastel polo—presses down the accelerator, rocketing the van down the street.

“Who the hell was that?” Alex asks, gasping for breath. Her heart hammers in her chest. “What the hell did he want with us?”

“That would be the Cenophaes,” Coralee says, somehow as unruffled as ever.

“I thought they wore robes or whatever? That guy looked like he was part of the Secret Service or something.”

“It looks as if they’ve modernized. With the team he had with him, with the equipment they were carrying, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were working with Thomas Warren.”

Alex and Strand share a look. Strand frowns. “You’re saying Thomas Warren is with the Cenophaes.”

Something about Coralee’s expression turns cold. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t tell me you believed whatever lies he was telling you, Richard. You can’t trust him.”

“I can’t trust you, either.”

Coralee sighs. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do this until much later.”

Coralee leans into Strand, while at the same time, she reaches for something behind her back. She whispers something into Strand’s ear. Strand’s eyes widen before he slumps into Coralee’s grip. His eyes blink languidly before his head falls back, unconscious. Coralee drops him, unceremoniously, to the floor, a needle stuck in his arm.

“What did you do to him?” Alex takes an unsteady step toward him and nearly loses her balance as the van takes another turn.

“I needed him out of the way so we could have a little chat.”

Alex hits her knees hard as she kneels down beside Strand. She checks his pulse. Slow, steady. Still alive. “I’m getting really tired of ‘little chats.’”

“And I’m tired of this little game. I know you know where the Horn of Tiamat is located. I want to know where.”

“You just drugged Strand. Why the hell would I tell you?”

Coralee smiles and this time it’s twisted into something sinister. “Because I’ll kill him if you don’t.”

Alex’s eyes go wide.

“You’re the key, Alex. Now that he’s given you to us, we don’t have any need for him.” Coralee pouts her painted lips. “In fact, he’s more of a hindrance than anything. The only thing keeping him alive is you. As long as you tell me what I need to know.”

“You would kill him, the man you married twenty years ago.”

Coralee only smiles.

Alex studies her face, her posture. It’s a gamble, but her gut has yet to steer her wrong. “Just like you killed his father.”

If anything, Coralee only looks more delighted. “Oh, very good, Alex. Very good.”

Alex shakes her head, pieces slotting themselves together. “Thomas Warren isn’t part of the Cenophaes. You are. That man, those snipers. They were yours. All of that was just an act. You tricked us.”

“How else was I supposed to get you to come with me?” And just like that, Coralee frowns, lips turned down in a scowl. She reaches into the pocket behind the front seat and pulls out heavy flashlight. “It took you long enough to figure it out. And here I thought you were an investigative reporter.”

Alex scrabbles backwards when Coralee approaches, her steps graceful and predatory, even with the sway of the van, but Alex has nowhere else to go. 

“I truly don’t want to hurt you, Alex. Like I said, I hoped it wouldn’t come down to this until much later. But if you’re not going to cooperate…” 

She raises the flashlight and swings it down.

The world goes black.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some gun violence up ahead. The worst of it is self-inflicted and takes place the second to last paragraph. Feel free to skip that part.

Alex blinks her eyes open with a groan. She sits up, clutching at her head, the lump from Coralee’s flashlight throbbing in time with her heartbeat. “Ow.”

She waits for her eyes to adjust to the dark to look around. Empty storage shelves line the walls. A lone lightbulb hangs over the space, the string pull frayed at the edges, cut too high up for Alex to reach, even if she tried standing on her tiptoes. No windows. A single door.

Alex stands, using one of the shelves as leverage. She fights back a wave of dizziness, closing her eyes against the accompanying nausea. She breathes through it until the world beneath her feet stops moving.

A concussion, probably.

She reaches for the door handle and it rattles in her hand. Locked. Of course.

She bangs on the door with both fists. “Hey! Hey! Let me out!”

She waits a beat and when no answer comes, Alex turns to rest her weight against the door.

Trapped.

By Coralee Strand. Who is a member of the Order of the Cenophaes. Who has Strand held hostage, as well. Who wanted to kill Strand to get Alex to give her what she wanted.

Considering Alex’s bag is missing from her closet-cell, considering Alex herself is locked inside, Coralee already has what she wants.

But she wouldn’t kill Strand, would she? Not if she still wants Alex’s cooperation. But, who’s to say she needs Alex to cooperate? Neither Alex nor Strand had time to read all of Howard’s notes. Alex has no idea what she’s supposed to do to stop the apocalypse, let alone start one—if that’s truly what Coralee means for her to do.

Alex turns and kicks the door.

Still no answer.

“Let me out, assholes!”

Nothing.

“Richard? I could really use your help here.”

She listens for the roar of the Guardian, but, again, nothing.

“Okay. I’m on my own. That’s—that’s okay. I’ll just have to find my own way out.” She circles the room, pulling at the shelves, testing their strength, but each is made from welded metal and screwed into the walls and floors. Not one so much as wiggles under her weight. 

Right, so she can’t beat down the door. And if—no, when—someone comes for her, she has nothing to used to defend herself.

Alex slides down to sit on the floor. “Damn it.”

How long will they keep her locked away? Hours? Days?

Without food or water?

Water.

“Goddamnit,” she says, letting her head rest against the wall. 

She already needs to pee.

 

Keys jangle on the other side of the door and Alex jerks out of a light doze. The doorknob rattles, then turns.

She pushes herself up as the door creaks open. She shields her eyes from the light, but through the slots in her fingers, she recognizes the man standing in the doorway. The man in the pastel polo shirt.

In his hand is a pistol, pointed at her chest.

Alex takes a step back, both hands held in front of her. 

“Let’s go,” he says, gesturing with his gun for Alex to step outside her cell.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the bathroom. Come on.”

Alex shakes her head. “Not until you tell me about Strand. Where is he? What have you done to him?”

“I’m not here for my own health. If you want to stay here out of some protest, go ahead.”

Alex considers it, briefly, but the pressure in her bladder convinces her otherwise. Where she had to go before, now the effort of holding it verges on painful.

He ushers her out of the closet, down a long corridor. The thin carpet beneath her boots is frayed, so old the pattern is indistinguishable beneath years of dust and dirt. The walls are spotted with mold and covered in layers of spray-painted tags. They pass closed door after closed door before Pastel Polo stops in front of one with an old sign carved with the word WOMEN. 

He opens the door with one arm and gestures her into the bathroom. “You first.”

“Me first? You mean, you’re coming, too?”

He gestures again and Alex shoulders past him, careful of the gun in his hand. He follows her inside and points at one of the stalls. “You try anything, I won’t hesitate to come in there.”

Alex flushes, but her embarrassment is offset by the relief of emptying her bladder. She takes care of her business, her mind swirling with potential plans of escape. Pastel Polo has a gun, but he wouldn’t dare shoot her, would he? They need Alex for whatever they have planned. Don’t they? Otherwise, wouldn’t she already be dead?

“Hurry it up,” Pastel Polo says.

Alex fastens her clothing and steps on the lever to flush the toilet. She emerges from the stall and heads for the sink. 

“This way,” he says, pulling at her shirt, back towards the door.

“Don’t be disgusting. I’m going to wash my hands.”

Pastel Polo frowns, but lets her go to the sink.

Taking her time, Alex turns on the faucet and fiddles with the taps. She fills her hand with the antibacterial orange liquid, the kind Pacific Northwest Stories uses in its own bathroom. She stares at it, chewing at her bottom lip.

She helped produce a story once, early on in her career, one that’s never really left her. A woman, Analise Rise, age 38, visited the local mall in search of a birthday present for her niece. Rise noticed an unfamiliar man following her into several stores and ducked into the bathroom in the food court. Her phone was in her hand, ready to call for help, when he ambushed her. She was able to get away because she fought back, because she—

Alex turns and shoves her hand into Pastel Polo’s face. She smears the soap into his eyes and nose.

Pastel Polo yells, his eyes shut tight. He drops the gun to the floor and scrabbles at his face with both hands. Alex pushes him, knocking him back into the wall. She jumps backwards when he makes a feeble attempt to grab at her.

She takes off, slamming the door open, running in the opposite direction of where they came, looking all the while for somewhere to hide. Pastel Polo yells again as he bursts out of the bathroom, his face an angry red, the gun in his hand.

Alex looks back long enough to see him cock the gun and aim at her. His arm wavers, unsteady. He grimaces and wipes at his eyes.

Alex turns and runs. She flinches as a shot rings out, but she doesn’t stop running.

Not until Coralee steps out into Alex’s path, the _clip-clop_ of her heels echoing in the empty hall. Behind her are two men dressed in the same paramilitary gear as Alex saw in the cave in New Mexico. Each holds a rifle pointed, thankfully, towards the floor.

“Walter,” Coralee says. “Put the gun down.”

“She—” Pastel Polo pants. It hadn’t taken him long to catch up. Even having slowed him down, he would have caught up to Alex eventually.

“Walter,” Coralee says. “I trusted you to watch over our guest, not once, but twice. And how many times have you failed me?”

“I—”

“How many times, Walter?”

Walter’s eyes narrow at Alex. “The first time wasn’t my fault, it was—”

Coralee holds up a hand. “But you are saying it’s happened more than once, aren’t you?”

“No, I—”

“Walter,” Coralee says, once more interrupting him. “You know I don’t tolerate failure. You know our Mother Goddess doesn’t tolerate failure. So, what must you do?”

Walter’s eyes go wide with momentary panic, before settling into something grim, but resigned.

Walter raises the gun. He presses it just beneath his jaw. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and pulls the trigger. An eruption of blood paints the wall behind him, some of it catching on Alex, on her hair, her face, her skin, as his body slumps to the ground.

Alex screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a few chapters left. Thanks for sticking with me! Your comments and kudos mean the world to me. C:


	21. Chapter 21

Alex stumbles back, knees weak. The armed guards shift, but it’s Coralee who takes her arm, who pulls her into an embrace.

“Why?” Alex asks around a sob. “Why would he do that?”

Coralee, heedless of the blood, pets Alex’s hair, shushing her. “Walter was a good man, but expendable. As are we all. Walter knew that.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this!”

Coralee pulls away. Her hand cups Alex’s cheek. Her thumb sweeps over the swell of her cheekbone, smearing the blood there with her tears. The older woman smiles at Alex, almost matronly. “Don’t you see, Alex? Nothing matters. Nothing except the success of our mission. We can’t tolerate failure. Not when we’re this close to the end.”

Alex shakes her head. “The end of what? The world? Why? Why would you want that?”

“We are Tiamat’s chosen children, Alex. We only wish to see her take her rightful revenge.”

“And then what? If there’s nothing left of the world, where does that leave you?”

“Safe, Alex. Just as you will be. And Richard, as long as you do as you’re expected to.”

Alex tries to extricate herself from Coralee’s grasp, but Coralee holds tight to her arm, her expertly manicured fingernails digging into Alex’s skin. “I’m not going to help you. I won’t let you destroy the world.”

“Oh, but I think you will.” Coralee nods at the guards before letting go of Alex. Each guard takes one of Alex’s arms. Alex struggles in their grip, but they do nothing more than exchange bored, baleful looks over Alex’s head. As if she’s nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum.

Coralee walks and the guards follow, dragging Alex behind them when she goes limp and refuses to cooperate. Coralee looks back, elegant brow arched. “You know,” she says, like she’s telling Alex an interesting fact, something she might have heard on Jeopardy the night before during dinner, so casually it makes Alex shiver, “we have ways to make you more amenable to our plans. Creative ways. But I don’t think we’ll need long to convince you.”

Further down the hall are a pair of industrial double doors, half rusted over. Coralee heads for them, a confident swing to her hips.

“Where are you taking me?” Alex asks.

“To your destiny, Alex.”

“This isn’t my destiny. It can’t be. I’m supposed to stop you.”

“And what makes you so certain? You only just learned who you are, who it is inside you.”

Alex shakes her head. “Tiamat wouldn’t want this.”

Coralee looks at Alex over her shoulder. She smiles. “I believe we’ll see about that.”

Coralee opens the double doors for Alex and the guards to pass through. A blast of cold air rushes over Alex. Her skin prickles beneath her sweater.

Inside, Alex digs her heels into the concrete and stares, mouth open, eyes wide.

A machine. Like something out of a science fiction movie. Or a computer, one of the first computers ever built, the kind big enough to be housed in an entire room. Except bigger. So much bigger. It towers over Alex, filling up the entire warehouse. Bundles of wires strung along walls and floors like spiders’ webs connect different parts of the machine. Electricity sparks overhead, where several wires have been jury-rigged to another, held together with nothing but curling silver tape.

“What is this?” Alex asks.

Coralee smiles, this time tinted with something like pride. “Behold, the Mysterium.”

They give Alex no more than a moment to take it all in before the guards drag her toward the machine. Alex struggles, kicking and biting anything within her reach. One of the guards emits a pained grunt when her elbow connects with his nose. Blood drips over his mouth and chin. He smiles a crimson stained smile. He hooks his arm and rears it back. 

Pain explodes in her gut. She coughs and chokes, but she can’t take in new breath. She doubles over and when the guards haul her up, she can do nothing but let them.

They drag her to a small, raised dais and lift her onto it. They drag her to a chair and force her down into it.

She gasps, finally able to take oxygen into her lungs, but it’s too late. The guard with the broken nose gives her another grotesque smile before securing the leather straps around her wrists. The second guard pulls the restraints tight at her ankles, until her legs are flush with the legs of the chair.

Trapped.

“Please,” Alex says. “Please, I don’t want to do this.”

Coralee, arms crossed over her chest like an impatient schoolteacher, motions with her head for the guards to continue. They disappear out of Alex’s sight. One returns, wheeling something into Alex’s view. Both guards lift the device—a tangle of wires and a large, clear orb—onto the dais and set it on a pedestal in front of her, inside the V of her legs, just within her reach.

“Touch it, Alex.”

“No!”

“I will not ask you a second time.”

“I won’t do it!”

Coralee sighs. “Oh, Alex. I told you we have ways to make you submit. I didn’t think you would be so stupid as to need an example.”

Coralee looks up and Alex follows her gaze. Above them, scaffolding, rusted, but apparently still structurally sound. A guard standing at attention goes through a door. She returns with two more guards, each carrying a body between them.

Strand.

Heavy chains wind tight around his body, padlocked shut. His head hangs forward while his toes drag along the scaffolding.

“What did you do to him?” Alex asks.

“We’ve been keeping him very heavily sedated, nothing more. But all of that can change with just a snap of my fingers.”

The first of the guards above them pulls out a pistol. She aims the gun at Strand’s knee.

“For example, I can have Leanne shatter each of Richard’s kneecaps.”

Alex shakes her head, tears brimming. “Don’t hurt him. Please.”

“Then do as I ask.”

Alex shakes her head again. Her tears threaten to spill. “I can’t.”

“Leanne,” Coralee says, radiating nonchalance, like she hasn’t just asked someone to cripple another living, human person. A person she once claimed to love, who she shared a life with, even if it was only on the surface. “Please show Alex how little patience I have for her games.”

Leanne adjusts her grip on the gun. She flips off the safety and—

“No! Stop.”

Coralee turns back to Alex. “Are you going to cooperate?”

She can’t. She can’t.

But she has to.

They’ll hurt Strand, torture him, right in front of her.

Alex isn’t strong enough to stand by and watch them tear him apart, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left.

Nothing but Alex, the machine, and the Cenophaes.

“He’ll be safe. Promise me he’ll be safe.”

Coralee smiles. “He will be safe, Alex. This I promise you.”

Alex swallows. The orb in front of her buzzes with something like electricity. Hesitantly, she lifts her hands as far as the straps will allow. Her fingertips brush the orb and she gasps.

 

She opens her eyes to a white room. Or not a room, but an infinite space, without doors or windows. Without floors or a ceiling. Without a visible source of light.

“Hello?” Her voice echoes back to her, bouncing around her in a way that disobeys every law of physics Alex is familiar with.

She blinks and a shadow stands before her. A living shadow, still, yet ever-moving, composed of static, like the grainy snow of an old television with poor reception. “Hello.”

The shadow speaks with Alex’s voice. It coalesces into something more solid, something Alex’s height with Alex’s shape. A complete shadow-copy of Alex, down to Alex’s sneakers.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?” The shadow returns.

“Alex. I’m Alex.”

“I’m Alex,” the shadow repeats. But then it cocks it’s head, shadow ponytail swinging. “Or am I?”

“I think,” Alex swallows. “I think you might be Tiamat.”

“Tiamat.” The shadow’s face remains featureless, but somehow Alex senses it smile. “Yes. I am Tiamat. For what purpose have you called on me?”

“I—“ Alex stops. She’s speaking to Tiamat. The goddess Tiamat. The goddess whose soul Alex shares. She straightens her shoulders and breathes out. “I need your help.”

“My power is yours, dear one. The question is, what will you do with it?”

“I want—“ Images flash before Alex’s eyes, a multitude of futures, each a reflection of a choice. They flicker across her mind, faster than she can blink, but they fill Alex with the knowledge of what could happen, if only she chooses. They stop, leaving Alex’s breathless and her knees weak. She blinks away the after bursts clouding her vision. “I want peace.”

“Peace.” Not a question, only a repetition of Alex’s words, tasted on a shadow’s tongue. 

“Peace,” Alex repeats. Peace for Strand, who has never known any of it. Peace for herself, who never asked for this power. Peace for the world, for it to be rid of the Cenophaes and Tiamat’s demons forever.

“If peace is what you want, you need only take it.”

 

Alex falls back into herself, rocking back in the chair with a small groan. Back in the warehouse, she opens her eyes to see the orb before her glowing a bright blue.

“Well?” Coralee asks. Her heels clack against the concrete as she approaches to inspect the orb. 

The orb sends out a burst of blue lightning, an arc that sends Coralee flying backward across the room. She lands in a heap and doesn’t move.

“Holy shit,” Alex says. She looks up. The guards holding Strand exchange glances over his head, clearly lost without Coralee’s direction. 

“Strand!” Alex calls. 

Nothing. No movement. Not even a groan.

His name. His name, which never fails to get his attention. “Richard!”

Strand twitches in his chains. His head lolls, but he doesn’t wake.

“Guardian!” Alex yells. “I know you’re not a morning person, but _now_ would be a good time for you to join the party!”

Strand skin emits a soft glow. A glow which brightens until it swallows the guards holding him, who scramble backward, out of the door and away as Strand changes form.

When the light fades, the Guardian stands above her. The scaffolding groans under his sudden weight. The guardian flexes his huge, bat-like wings until the metal links binding him screech in protest. Broken, they fall away, through the bars in the scaffolding to land with a crash against the concrete.

“You know what to do,” Alex says. “Don’t kill anyone, but—I’m leaving it up to you, okay?”

The Guardian grins around sharp fangs. He gives a mischievous half-bow before taking to his wings with a powerful _woosh_ of displaced air.

Alex closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the rest. She tries to shut out the screams of the remaining Cenophaes and what sounds suspiciously like delighted laugher from the Guardian.

She doesn’t know how long it lasts—it could be minutes, it could be hours. Heavy footsteps alert her to his presence. Alex opens her eyes and smiles. “Get me out of here, will you?”

He knocks the pedestal from the dias. The orb shatters, the lightning inside dispersed. Sharp talons slice through the leather keeping her wrists immobile.

Alex leans forward to unbuckle the restraints at her ankles, but the Guardian gives her hands a gentle swat. He kneels before her, tilting his head downward in a bow for just a moment, before the restraints fall away.

Before he can move, Alex runs her hands through starlight silver hair. The Guardian looks at her with otherworldly blue eyes. “One last thing. Destroy the machine for me?”

He gives her an awful grin. Alex gets up from the chair, giving him plenty of space.

He rips the machine apart, tearing through metal with claws and heavy wings. Components are thrown across the room to crash into parts of the machine still untouched. A small fire catches, melting internal wires, filling the room with the reek of burning plastic. By the time the Guardian has finished, nothing of the original machine remains intact.

Alex holds out her hand. With a flare of white light, Richard walks toward her, his clothing ripped and torn. He takes her hand and pulls her into his chest. Alex wraps her arms around him and looks up with a smile. “Hey, you didn’t need me to call you back, this time.”

“Your presence was enough of an incentive for me to change back. I needed to see you. To know you were okay. Are you okay?”

Alex tilts her head. “Aside from a concussion and some bruised ribs, right as rain.”

Strand slumps, letting out an exhausted breath. “Then you won’t mind if I take a short rest.”

“A short one,” Alex agrees. “After that, we probably should escape the burning building.”

Strand laughs. He places his head on her shoulder, placing a tender kiss against the column of her neck. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> Expect an epilouge soon. Soon-ish. Sometime in the near future. In the meantime, your kudos, comments, and bookmarks all mean so much to me. Really, they kept me writing this MONSTER of a fic. I love each and every one of you.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	22. Epilogue

Alex stands on a chair, arm stretched high above her head. She curses, her fingers just brushing the plastic container on the top shelf.

She stands on her tiptoes and leans in. She nudges the container with the tips of her fingers, moving it toward her in small increments. 

The chair wobbles and Alex wobbles with it.

Before she can completely lose her balance, a hand presses at her lower back, steadying her. She turns and smiles at Strand. “My hero.”

Strand’s mouth twists into his wry smile. “Yes. Well. What are you doing up there?”

“I was hungry. Why the hell do you keep your cereal all the way on the top shelf? And why are your shelves so high, in the first place?”

Strand’s smile pulls into a full-fledged smirk. He reaches for the plastic container and doesn’t even have to stretch to do so.

“That’s not fair,” she grumbles. She takes the container from him and allows him to steady her as she hops down from the chair. “Want any?”

“No, thank you.”

Alex opens a cabinet and takes a bowl from the shelf. She sifts through the refrigerator to find the milk—almond, just as she requested. She finds a spoon in a drawer and rests it in the bowl. She pours cereal—Cinnamon Toast Crunch, her favorite—into the bowl and adds a splash of milk. “Where’s Ruby?”

“I have no idea. She had a tape measure in her hand. I think she said something about carving out a space for her office.”

Alex shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. She chews, looking thoughtfully at the kitchen. Brand new appliances, new marble countertops, the hardwood floor polished. “It’s a good thing Ruby is so handy with the DIY stuff. This place looks nothing like it did before.”

Strand’s father’s house, no longer left to rot. Now the new home of the Strand Institute and their base of operations.

“It’s a step in the right direction.” Strand takes a breath, he shoulders square. “There is one question that remains.”

Alex swallows a mouthful of cereal. “What’s that?”

“Would you like a space of your own?”

Alex lets her spoon drop into the bowl. “Are you asking me to move in?”

“I know you value your independence. Don’t feel as if you have to. I only thought—you come and go so often, it may be more convenient for you to—to stay. Here. With me.”

“Hm,” Alex says, making a show of thinking it over, tapping her finger against her bottom lip. “It would make doing my laundry that much easier.”

Strand’s smile falls, just a fraction. “Ruby assures me the washer and dryer are top of the line.”

Alex grins. She crosses over to him, stepping into his space, winding her arms around him. “You goof. Of course I’ll stay. For you, not for your washer and dryer. Though, I won’t say that isn’t a plus.”

Strand squeezes her to him. “Oh. Good.”

Alex squeezes back before pulling away. “You’re still cute when you’re flustered.”

Strand laughs. “So you’ve said.”

Alex goes back to her cereal and finishes it before it can go completely soggy. She lifts the bowl to her lips and finishes off the cinnamon cereal-milk. As she loads the dirty bowl and spoon into the dishwasher, she asks, “Any new cases?”

“Plenty,” Strand says, “but only one I find promising.”

“Where is it? Please say it’s out in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know how we managed to explain away a giant winged creature the last time, but it’s clear no one completely bought our story.”

“Unfortunately, no. New Orleans.”

Alex bites at her bottom lip. “New Orleans might not be so bad. The Guardian might be close to what passes for normal there.”

Strand rolls his eyes. He leans on the counter, his arms crossed on the surface in front of him. “You know ghosts—“

“—and goblins and ghouls don’t exist,” Alex finishes. “I know. But the paranormal hijinks of New Orleans aside, I was thinking it might be easier to explain the Guardian away as some sort of elaborate costume. You know, for when he inevitably shows off.”

Strand covers his mouth to hide a smile. “I have no idea where he gets it from.”

“Right. Sure,” Alex says. “I think he just _enjoys_ ripping demons apart. I think it’s fun for him.”

“He certainly enjoys ripping my clothing to pieces. He’s cost me a fortune in new shirts.”

Alex laughs. “I can’t complain about that. Some of us enjoy seeing you shirtless.”

Strand flushes a faint pink.

“In fact,” Alex says, mouth twisting into a wicked grin. “I could stand to see you without a shirt, right now. While you show me our bedroom.”

The pink across his cheeks deepens. “Our—yes. Our bedroom.”

Alex holds out her hand and he takes it, his skin warm when she laces their fingers together.

[](https://78.media.tumblr.com/010c1154ef560669e2367f354bd834cc/tumblr_pa7zzyo8QE1qe2x7jo1_540.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And _that_ is a wrap!
> 
> Thank you so much for following this fic. Again, I love each and every one of you. If you can, please take a second to leave a kind remark, even if it's just an extra "kudos." It would mean the world to me. :D


End file.
